


Letters To Sherlock

by jessisnotdeadyet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide Attempt, graveside letters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-02-05 15:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 58
Words: 29,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessisnotdeadyet/pseuds/jessisnotdeadyet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has to deal with Sherlock's "death". As a coping mechanism, he decides to write letters to Sherlock. He leaves the letters on his grave every week on a Wednesday, starting from one month after the Fall. As he believes Sherlock to be dead, John can be more free to make his true feelings clear...<br/>This fanfiction will consist of 52 letters from John Watson to the "deceased" Sherlock Holmes, then will be continued in a story in Chapter 53. Mystrade included in such fanfiction. Rated M for later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 15 02 2012

Dear Sherlock,

It's been one whole month since... You died. It's gone so quickly. Still feels like yesterday. Still hurts as much, too.

I can't decide what to do with myself nowadays; there are no crimes to drag me out of the flat and none to write about. Because you're not here anymore.

221B's been lonely since you left. There's no one shooting the walls, no one leaving severed heads in the fridge or eyes in the microwave. No one's lying on the sofa in their dressing gown, shouting "BORED!" every five minutes. There's no secret stores of cigarettes, no microscope slides or conical flasks cluttering up the kitchen surfaces. It's just empty. Well, empty except for me.

I've promised myself that I will never re-draft these letters, because that would be like editing. And editing isn't honest, Sherlock, and I know you'd always want me to be honest with you.

Why am I writing this? You'd probably say that it was sentiment, which, I suppose, to some extent it is. But when I really look at it, it's because I write, Sherlock. And since I can't blog anymore, it makes sense for me to write these letters to you.

You'll never get the chance to read them, I know, but the great thing about that is that no one will ever have to know how I really feel. And I feel terrible. I am so alone and tired and I can't really cope anymore. I pretend that I'm okay for Mrs Hudson and Sarah, but I'll never be okay, Sherlock. And you should have thought about that before you decided to die.

You'd think that I was an idiot for writing this. I know you would. But I can't leave you behind. I just can't. I will never understand why you took your own life, and said to me the things you did, but whatever happens, Sherlock, I will always believe in you. It doesn't matter that you never gave me an explanation, because it's never been a question, Sherlock.

Your John.


	2. 22 02 2012

Dear Sherlock,

This week has gone by without a single worthwhile story to tell. I've worked, I've read, I've slept. It's all so... mundane. And boring, Sherlock. How can I ever settle into this dull existence when all I think about is how fast the hours flew when I was with you.

I don't fall asleep at my desk anymore, and I don't ever get hungry because there's no you to drag me out in the middle of the night to a crime scene or interrupt my meals with the words "Come on, John." To anyone else, it might seem like a release, but to me it just enhances the longing I have to get back into that life.

Mycroft told me that I didn't fear the war, but that I missed it. And this is exactly the same. I miss everything about you, from your violin to your 'we-both-know-what's-going-on-here' face. God, what I wouldn't give to have you back, Sherlock.

If you wanted to know, Mrs Hudson is fine. She's still running the shop, doing well, and out of the kindness of her heart, she is letting me stay here on Baker Street even though I can only afford half of the rent.

She doesn't talk about you around me. In fact, no one does. Instead they whisper behind my back and then look at me with pity every time I stumble because some memory of you has pushed its way to the forefront of my mind. I hate that. I don't want pity, Sherlock. You'd understand how I feel.

I'll try to keep you up to date, considering that you can't read the papers now. Maybe there'll be something that catches your interest. Or maybe there won't. Either way, I'll still tell you.

Your John.


	3. 29 02 2012

Dear Sherlock,

This week in the news:

There's been a reported kidnapping of a woman named Lillian Biggs. She was 28, and lived on the outskirts of London. She went missing yesterday.

There's not actually that much else to say. I'm sorry, but I tried.

Sarah and I went out last night. Got some Italian food from that place around the corner. It was nice, I guess. But it was no Chinese circus.

Mrs Hudson sold your lab equipment the other day. I hope you don't mind. But it had to go somewhere, and we weren't using it. Now the flat's even emptier than before. You could call it tidy or organised, but it's just a reminder to me that you're never coming back.

It feels like you're slipping away sometimes, as gradually more and more of your stuff gets put away into boxes and shunted into your bedroom. That room is like a morgue itself. A tribute to you. I hardly ever go in. There's so much dust on the floor that sometimes I wonder if I can see little mouse footprints in it. I hope we don't have mice. They're bastards to get rid of.

I haven't seen Molly at all recently. I don't see her at the hospital, and she never drops in. It's like the only reason that she ever came round was to see you. That's probably true. You know how she felt about you.

Well, you'll probably think I'm an idiot (again) after reading this. But there you go. We can't all be brilliant all the time.

Oh, and Sherlock, have you noticed that the letters I've been leaving keep disappearing? I leave them on your grave, and by the next day they are gone. I'm guessing it's just the groundskeeper picking up rubbish, or keeping people's hopes alive. Or reading the letters because he's nosy and disrespectful. Oh well. Can't really do anything about that, can I?

Your John.


	4. 07 03 2012

Dear Sherlock,

Greg and I have kept in touch, if you didn't already know, and three days ago he rang me and called me out to a crime scene. I know what you're thinking: "John at a crime scene, expected to miraculously deduce the answer?" But apparently the police are lost without their consultant detective, so they turned to me.

It's not like I was of any help to them. I looked at the body, but I'm not you, Sherlock. Nothing stood out to me, and there was none of that genius that you had. I think they just hoped that I'd picked up something from you. But you always surprised me, and I could never be as clever as you.

Anderson was there, like he always is, and he kept spouting nonsense at me whilst I was examining the body. I told him to shut up for you. I thought you'd appreciate that. I think Greg might have smiled, but he covered it up pretty well.

There's no use in me telling you what I saw on the body, or whether they were wearing a wedding ring or not or even who they were. Because I won't have noticed anything of importance that could possibly help you to solve this case. I know you would have had the answer within five minutes of entering the room.

Greg... Well... I'm not sure what he thinks about you. I still wonder whether he believes in you or not. When we were at the crime scene, I heard him say: "I wish Sh-" And then he caught himself, as though he remembered that you were apparently a fake and could no more have helped him than I could.

But I know you weren't a fake. I know because I knew the real Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock at home, who would run around screaming for cigarettes, sulk on the sofa for days on end, put body parts in the fridge with the food, shoot at a smiley face on the wall and walk around in only a bedsheet. That was the real you, and I don't think that's possible to fake.

Your John.


	5. 14 03 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I think Greg's given up on me. We're still staying in touch, but after my third unsuccessful case, he told me that he wouldn't bother me again, and that I was "No Sherlock Holmes." I knew that already, so I told him it was fine. But now I kind of miss it, as it was the only thing left that could even bring me close to the life I had with you.

Every day I get closer to realising exactly how you felt when you didn't have any work. The boredom is horrific. Sometimes I wish I could get back into the army, to serve again, just to get away from this hell that I am living. I don't like life anymore. It has very little appeal when you're not running for your life or chasing after a man who made every day an adventure. And, no, Sherlock, I'm not going to kill myself, so don't worry about me. I wouldn't do that to the people who I would leave behind.

Sometimes I get flashbacks of you, and of us. And they hurt so much that I can't move for the next few minutes. I hear your voice and I see your face in my mind and it reminds me of how absolutely happy I was, and how much I loved being around you. I took you for granted sometimes, Sherlock, and sometimes I even resented you. But how could I ever, when I look back and see how amazing it was to be your friend.

I'm still angry. Still very angry, but mainly because you didn't even offer me any sort of truth. I know that you lied to me in that phonecall. And those lies were the last things that I ever heard you say. Why couldn't you at least tell me something with some validity to it? Why tell me lies, why try to convince me that you weren't the man I knew you to be? Why would you do that, Sherlock? Why would you do that to me?

"Goodbye, John." They were your very last words. And I will never ever forget them. I will carry them with me until the day I die, because you were, and are, my best friend. And I will never stop believing in you.

Your John.


	6. 21 03 2012

Dear Sherlock,

Do you remember that time when you and I were sat in that restaurant by Northumberland Street, and your friend who owned the restaurant kept calling me your date? Well, of course you remember. You never forget anything. Except that the Earth goes around the Sun.

Well, my point is... There is no point. I'm just remembering our time together, and I'm starting at the beginning.

But that night was a big turning point for me, because that was the night that you cured my limp. In the heat of the moment you made me forget that it had ever existed, and then we ran across rooftops and down alleyways, and I didn't even notice. We got home and your friend came and dropped my cane off. I couldn't believe it. I was so overjoyed that I could say no words to express how grateful I was. That, I think, was the moment when I realised that you were someone I couldn't live without. I owe you so much, Sherlock. I've said it before but I have to say it again, because it's true.

I had freedom, because of you. I had the freedom to walk and run and move without hindrance or constraint. It's a gift greater than any that money could buy. And even though you are gone, and the memories hurt, I would still rather have known you and lost you than never have known you at all. Despite the grief that you have caused me, I will always look back at you as the man that I knew you to be: that charismatic, fantastic, brilliant, human, high-functioning sociopath. And that man will always make me smile.

Your John.


	7. 28 03 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I think I am going to take a job at the hospital. Work at the surgery isn't really doing anything for me at the moment, and I know I'd be better off in a hospital environment. What do you think? I mean, getting a full-time job was never an option with you, so it feels strange to be faced with the possibility. But I need something to take my mind off this.

Mrs Hudson is doing very well. She seems to have gotten over you now, but sometimes I catch a glimpse of the sadness in her when she walks into the flat and sees that you're not there. I caught her staring at your violin yesterday, where it sits by the window. Like she was waiting for you to come home and play her a tune.

Sarah and I are doing fine. Just plodding along. Our relationship doesn't seem to be getting any better, but it's getting no worse either, so I'm happy to stay where I am.

Greg called me yesterday, asking me if I wanted to go out for a drink or two. I told him yes, so that is what I am doing tonight.

I still haven't seen Molly. I don't know if she's avoiding us or not. Maybe she feels too sad to come and see us. I wouldn't blame her if she is.

You know, I haven't seen hide nor hair of Mycroft since you died. It's as though he's disappeared entirely. But then, he was only ever your brother, not really one of my friends, certainly. I hope he's alright. Though he never seemed to care about anyone, I guess he must have when it came to you.

I realise that this is all quite trivial, but I wanted to write to you, even if the letters you receive are pointless and lacking in interest. I promised to keep you up to date and well-informed, and that is what I am doing.

Sherlock, there's one person I know you care about that I haven't mentioned in any of my letters, and that is Irene Adler. I told you that she was alright, and under protection from the US government, but I suppose I shouldn't have, because it was a lie. Irene Adler died. And I'm ashamed that I didn't tell you sooner, but I didn't think I could. I didn't want to ever see you unhappy.

I'm so sorry, Sherlock.

Your John.


	8. 04 04 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I took that job at the hospital, so now I'm working on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Sundays, 9:00am until 6:00pm, and I do night shifts on Fridays. I started on Monday and I'll tell you now that it was one of the best decisions I could have made. Just to feel useful again is a joy, and helping people has always been a priority for me. After being left without you to help, Sherlock, the hospital is a factor much welcomed into my life.

I remember you telling me that caring about people won't help them, but, as a doctor and not a detective, I can't help but care for the people who I treat. If you don't care about them then you can't really help them, as you'd just ignore how they're feeling and that wouldn't help them get better. But I understand why you did not deign to care for the people involved in any of your cases.

You had several people who you did care about, though. Mrs Hudson, Greg, me, and maybe even Molly, to some extent. And I know that even though you class Mycroft as your arch-enemy, don't try to tell me that you didn't care about him too.

And these are the people you left mourning you, Sherlock. And we are still grieving and some of us are still not able to believe that you're dead. You were far too clever, far too strong to ever have killed yourself. Or so we thought. It's just so difficult to comprehend, and so painful to think about.

I'll write again soon. In a week, like always.

Your John.


	9. 11 04 2012

Dear Sherlock,

Work is really taking it out of me. I'm so tired all the time, both mentally and physically, but it's all better than being bored again. I feel more like I used to; tired and hungry, but for different reasons than when I was with you. Working at the hospital is helping me a great deal, though, and now I can pay off more of the rent, which makes me feel better about dumping myself on Mrs Hudson still.

Speaking of which, I am actually helping Mrs Hudson do up 221C, so that she can get someone else renting down there. We're having to strip everything back before we can do anything to it. Actually, I'm doing all of the work, and Mrs Hudson is volunteering her support and her money to help me get finished.

So yes, I've been very busy for the past week, so it was hard to get any time at all to write this letter to you. But I've managed, and I'm writing this sat at the dinner table whilst eating a pizza I ordered. It's too big for me to finish by myself, because I expected Sarah round for tea, but she decided last minute that she couldn't come. So I'm left with a 20" pizza and a lonely flat. Not even Mrs Hudson is in tonight. She's gone out with Marie Turner from next door.

Drinks with Greg the other week went well, thanks for asking.

Your John.


	10. 18 04 2012

Dear Sherlock,

Work on 221C is going very well; we're now all done with stripping it back and on Friday we're starting on the plastering. It's a big job, but Greg's offered to come round and help, so hopefully we'll get it done quicker. Mrs Hudson's been picking out wallpapers and flooring tiles for the flat, but they're not going to do much good for a while. If you were here, would you be helping us? I can't imagine you doing anything like this. You'd probably just watch us and add little comments every now and again.

I shouldn't think you'd be interested, but Sarah hasn't called me for a couple of days and I haven't seen her in ages. I hope there's nothing wrong with her. I'm probably just worrying for worrying's sake, but I can't help but feel a little anxious.

But anyway, Sherlock, this week Greg told me that he'd found that girl who went missing, you know, the one I told you about? Lilian Biggs? Yeah, they found her on Sunday. She'd been raped, apparently, and then left in the middle of some woods a little way away. She was suffering from hypothermia, and was admitted into the hospital for a bit whilst she recovered. So there's some good news for you. I don't think the world gets enough good news nowadays, so it's a relief when we actually do.

Can I ask you a quick question, Sherlock? Well, you can't really say no, so here goes.

You know that I have always been loyal to you, and that I'd always put you first, even over all the girlfriends that I've had since I met you. Well, why do you think that is? Why would I see you as more important than my love life?

It's a stupid question, but I really just don't know the answer. I've thought, but I'm so confused because I can't figure out why. I know you can't answer me, but maybe writing these words down on paper will help me get my thoughts in order.

Nope. I'm still stumped.

Your John.


	11. 25 04 2012

Dear Sherlock,

221C is finally plastered! We've started painting the ceiling now and replacing some of the old floorboards. Work on the flat has been progressing more quickly than we could have hoped, so we're aiming to be done by the end of next month. We've ordered in all the new skirting board and it'll be arriving tomorrow. It may not be very important to you, but this renovation is a big part of my life right now. How could you ever have believed that I wouldn't be lost without you?

I saved someone's life today. Again. Their heart stopped as they arrived at the hospital, after having a heart attack. I got the paddles and shocked them back to life. Saving people like that makes me feel good about myself, even if it's easy for me and just part of regular routine. This is why I love being a doctor, and a good doctor, because I can do the most for people that anyone possibly could. Saving their lives. You did that as well, Sherlock, but in a different way. You stopped people from dying by stopping the people who would cause them to die. We are both the same, really. Except you work in the long-term, whereas I work in the short.

Sarah and I are back on track. She came around and we went out for dinner and went to the cinema. She was just really busy, and I guess I was too. That's all I have to say on that matter. You don't really want to know about Sarah, do you Sherlock?

Just quickly, did you have time to think about that question I asked you? I don't want to pester you, but I'm still not getting anywhere with it.

Your John.


	12. 02 05 2012

Dear Sherlock,

The days have been getting on, but I feel like they're leaving me behind a bit, because everyone and everything around me is moving forwards, but I'm still stuck in the past. In the time when we were together. Because that's the last time I remember being happy. Really happy.

I don't know how to say this, or how to fully express what I mean, because there aren't enough words in the English language to convey exactly how my mashed-up emotions are working.

What I can tell you with overall clarity is that I miss you, Sherlock Holmes. I miss you with every fibre of my being because you made me feel alive. You opened up the doors to a world where nothing was simple, nothing was dull, and nothing was insignificant or forgotten.

And now it's just so bleak. My future was bleak before you came along, and my life is bleak now that you're gone. Without you, there's nothing for me. I wouldn't be where I am today if it wasn't for you. No Mrs Hudson, no Greg, no Sarah. And I certainly wouldn't have any deductive skills whatsoever.

You were a gift to my life, and Sherlock, you know that when you give a gift you're not allowed to take it away. But you were always a rule-breaker. You took that gift when you took your life. That's not okay, Sherlock. But you can't give the gift back now, can you? So it's pointless even imagining you walking through that door every single night before I go to sleep.

Your John.


	13. 09 05 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I didn't really finish that last letter, did I? I missed out almost everything that I was trying to say and babbled on about something you already know. Do I bore you, Sherlock?

My main point that I had intended to write about was how I felt - and feel - about you. Because I've never told you. Or at least, I haven't told you much. I took it for granted that I probably would never have to, seeing as I'd integrated you into all of my future plans, and some day we'd be so close that you'd simply realize how I felt. How I feel.

Because I hoped that one day you would realise that I loved you, Sherlock. As a friend, a companion, and as a partner. You shone light into my heart, and I thought that the feeling that you gave me was entirely the best feeling possible to know.

But also the worst, because when the one you love considers themselves married to their work, you really don't stand a chance, do you? Not when you know that your friend is an apparent asexual and "not looking for anyone".

You see how much of an effect you've had on me? That was the day after we met, when you said that. But I can remember every word you spoke. When it comes to you, the human memory is not only 60% accurate. Or at least it isn't for me.

You're probably reading this and having a heart attack. Because you do have a heart, Sherlock Holmes. The only problem is that it doesn't belong to me.

You have all my love,

Your John.


	14. 16 05 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I'm sorry about that last letter. I just had to say it. I couldn't keep it in anymore. It's probably inconsequential to you - it certainly is for me now. Because this can't have any consequences. You never really cared much for love anyway, and you never saw it as something of importance. The experience with Molly was proof of that. But it did get better for her after you found out. It won't have the chance to get better between us.

You may be wondering how long I've known about this. Well, it's a bit hazy, even for me, because when I finally realised, I discovered that I'd always felt that way from the moment that we met.

You intrigued me. You made me wonder, and you sparked my brain into thinking and exploring the many mysteries of your character. It's not that I ever began to love you, it's just that I always did.

And that's the way it's meant to work, isn't it? That love isn't created with intention, but rather discovered slowly through subconscious feelings gradually emerging in a time span much longer than you know. Or is that just me again, hoping that the love I have for you is the true love that will never fade.

But why am I still with Sarah, then, and why did I ever go out with her in the first place, when the person I really cared for was right beside me all along? The truth is, Sherlock, that if it wasn't you, I don't think I could have embraced that side of me ever again. I would only have ever come out if you were there to catch me. I was so uncertain of my sexuality when I was younger that I suppressed any feelings I had for men. I lied about having feelings for you because it was hard for me to accept that those feelings so long contained were slipping out again.

Well, there you have it. Now you know everything. I hope you understand me, and you don't think any differently about me because of this. I'll still be your friend, and, if you can tolerate my feelings for you, then I'll still be your flat-mate, in a way. Your chair will remain empty.

Love,  
Your John.


	15. 23 05 2012

Dear Sherlock,

In telling you the truth, I have neglected to update you on events. Sorry. I had to explain myself.

So the news on 221C is that it's nearly finished! The wallpaper's been put up, the tiles in the kitchen have been laid and the fireplace is all done up with a new mantlepiece. I didn't stick a knife in this one. Mrs Hudson is very proud of me and to say thank you she bought me a jumper. I love it, of course; it's this beautiful green, and matches exactly the colour of your eyes. I don't think she realises that, but it must have attracted her because of the subconscious connections. Greg has been a great help, and we couldn't have gotten so far so quickly without him. All that's left to do is furnish the flat and get the shower working. We've put up an advertisement in the shop, and we're hoping someone'll be interested.

I'm getting into the routine at work now, so I can function properly. I'm getting my meals in, and I sleep at every possible opportunity. So I'm alright, in that sense, because I'm not feeling like hell anymore.

Speaking of the hospital, I saw Molly yesterday. She came into work just as I was leaving. I said hi, and we had a quick chat, asking how the other was and things like that. She tried to be happy, but she just looked at me very sadly. I can't tell you if it was sadness for me or for herself, or both. It was probably both. Neither of us will ever recover, because it's not possible to when you lose the person you love.

It was good to see her, anyway. I'd been worried about her. I'm glad that she's coping. You only have yourself to blame for all this unhappiness, Sherlock.

I'll write again later. I've left all the newspapers for the last two weeks for you, just in case you find something interesting that I missed. I hope that groundskeeper doesn't mind all this paper that he'll have to clear away. Oh well, I don't really care. You're more important to me.

Love,  
Your John.


	16. 30 05 2012

Dear Sherlock,

We've got someone coming round at the weekend to look at 221C, which is exciting and rewarding for us all. Mrs Hudson is so anxious to make a good impression that she's ordering in all of this furniture that isn't exactly cheap. But she says it'll all be worth it in the end when she's bringing in all this extra rent.

The person who's coming is apparently a young woman who's trying to find somewhere to live so that she can work here in London. She came into the shop on Monday and saw the advert, and thought that it was ideal. I wasn't there at the time, but Mrs Hudson tell me that she seemed perfectly nice. I hope she does decide to move in - it would be a relief for us.

I've been going to see my therapist again, since you died. It hasn't really helped, but I felt like I needed to do something. She knows, I think, that she won't be able to fix me, but she's doing everything she can, and I appreciate that. Would you believe that I hadn't seen her in eighteen months? I didn't have any reason to go back to her after you stopped my limp. That last time I went to see her, before I met you, I told her that nothing ever happened to me. How wrong I was.

My blog took off when it was filled with you, but I'm getting no more views now. No one wants to hear about "the fake genius, Sherlock Holmes". I'm not writing it anymore, because I have nothing to write about. Now you're dead I have nothing to say because nothing does happen to me anymore.

So these letters are composed of nonsensical rubbish and nothing of importance. They're probably boring you. But it's a sort of therapy for me, much better than anything my therapist could offer me.

I wish I didn't have to write these. I wish that you were here and bringing back into my life that which you did in the beginning. My existence is dull. Please help me, Sherlock.

Love,  
Your John.


	17. 06 06 2012

Dear Sherlock,

The woman who came to look at the flat is moving in later today (it's only 5 am). Her name is Nina Bargman, she's twenty-three, and she's just finished her course at the art college. She does design and some creative media, but she mainly paints and does exhibitions of her work. Shall I give you a description of everything I've noticed about her? See how I'm getting on with my deductions? Okay.

Her hair is long, all the way down to her waist, I'd suppose. But when I've seen her she's always had it tied up. That would mean that it gets into her face when she's working, so I assume she always paints standing up. Her hair is also really dark, just like yours was, and sort of curly, but more wavy. It's naturally that way, because a woman who wears absolutely no make-up would probably not be expected to curl her hair every day. It even has flecks of red, blue or white paint in the ends where it's dipped into her paint palette. But the colours are different every day, so she showers a lot, but paints enough to always have some strange colours in her hair.

Her face is always smudged with something, be it paint, charcoal or graphite, and always on the right cheekbone and under her left eye where I assume she itches when the bits of hair that have fallen out of her hair tie tickle her.

Her eyes are constantly bloodshot, which suggests that she doesn't sleep very much or very often, but she seems to be alert enough, as though she's used to it. I'd say that she loses track of time often, because she gets so engrossed in her work that she forgets to see to the needs of her body. Maybe an obsessive personality? They're brown, her eyes, I think. But in the light they're blue-green around the edges and a hazel brown in the middle. Quite a mixture of genes there. So quite contrasting parents, then.

She doesn't have any animals, because there's no pet hair anywhere on her. She was wearing a shirt that was a day old last time I saw her, if we look at the creases. Her shoes aren't ever polished, because they are covered in scuff marks. She's right handed, because the right cuff of her coat is ever so slightly more worn than the left.

Have I missed anything? Well, of course I have. Probably everything important. But I'm no Sherlock Holmes. Still nothing like you. Still nothing without you.

Love,  
Your John.


	18. 13 06 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I've really been getting to know Nina; when she's not busy and I'm not at work we go to each other's flat and have coffee or tea. And in the evenings, Mrs Hudson joins us in our flat (221B) and we all have a chat and a drink with some cakes from the shop. It's really nice to have some company. After so long being alone, having Nina to talk to is an absolute pleasure. She's actually quite interesting. Well, she's interesting to me. Maybe not to you because you only find dead people and serial killers interesting.

Don't be jealous, Sherlock. And don't worry, because she'll never be able to replace you. It's just good to have someone to talk to when I need it. And though she's not half as amazing as you were, she's a decent substitute.

Greg and I met up on Saturday, and we went out for some lunch. We had a bit of a talk about recent happenings, such as this murder. It was some young man in the north of the city. Anyway, his killer's been found already. So if they could work it out that easily, surely it would have been too trivial for you.

We talked about you, actually. But Greg found it quite hard, I think, to say anything he wanted to. He kept pausing and sighing between words. He said that he was still disbelieving that you could ever betray us all like you did. He said that he doubted you, I mean really doubted you, when you ran from the police and held a gun to my head. That was the only thing that really shocked him, and it was what made him believe that you were a fake. The thing that got me was that he genuinely believed that you would have pulled the trigger on me if he'd tried anything. It seems unrealistic to me, and it's strange to think that they saw you as a threatening and sadistic murderer. It's unbelievable. But that's what Greg told me.

I trusted you so completely that I would never even have considered that. I wasn't scared or worried that your finger might slip and I'd get a bullet through my head. I was fine, just as long as you were beside me.

I'm not fine now.

Love,  
Your John.


	19. 20 06 2012

Dear Sherlock,

You'll never believe what's happened!

So you remember that you started getting famous after you solved the Reichenbach mystery, and people started getting interested in you as a detective. And I don't think you would know, because you never used the internet for anything except research, but there were a lot of people who became quite obsessed with your cases and began... I think the technical word is "fangirling".

So I woke up on Saturday morning, quite late, and I got ready to go out, but when I opened the door I was ambushed by a crowd of screaming kids (plus Anderson?), and then I noticed that they were all holding pieces of paper with letters on them. When they held them up, it said "WE BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES". And all around, on the walls, on the windows, on the telephone boxes and signposts were countless posters with drawings of you and Moriarty, saying "MORIARTY WAS REAL", and "SHERLOCK HOLMES WAS NOT A FAKE", with hashtags (you won't know what those are) like #believeinsherlock. It was absolutely unreal.

Because I thought that the whole world had given up on you, but these people showed me that I wasn't the only one that still believes. The support that this gives me is absolutely amazing and it has renewed my love for the world, even if I have to live in it without you.

Love,  
Your John.

P.S. I don't know what the heck Anderson was doing. He seemed to be the one organising them all... I think he's off his rocker. Lestrade says he's feeling guilty. I wouldn't be surprised.


	20. 27 06 2012

Dear Sherlock,

The posters have all been taken down now by the police. They said it wasn't appropriate for people to be supporting a murderer and giving encouragement to a man who was evil in all aspects. I nearly went out and fought your corner, but I didn't want to get into any more trouble with the police. Nor did I want to undo all your hard work you did to take the focus off me when you 'kidnapped' me and called me your hostage.

The street's less lively without the posters, but their memory remains, and it's nice for me to know that I am not alone in my beliefs.

Everything's going fine here in Baker Street, asides that. Mrs Hudson is enjoying life and is very happy with the increased income she gets from having Nina's rent. Nina and I have been spending a lot more time together, because we do get on very well. I've been looking at her artwork, which is amazing, by the way. It's beautiful to say the least. I can understand now how she manages to pay all her rent by herself; she could sell those paintings for hundreds, even thousands, of pounds.

And what about me? Well, surely you don't need me to tell you that, Sherlock.

I left today's paper, because I found something you might want to look at. There is a potential serial killer on the loose, and I know how much you love those.

Watch out for cabbies. I know I will.

Love,  
Your John.


	21. 04 07 2012

Dear Sherlock,

There have been loads of letters coming through the door this past week from all of your 'fangirls'. They're all very sweet and supportive, telling me to be strong and to keep faith. I haven't been able to reply to any yet, but I think I'd like to.

It's been so long now, and though all this support is welcome and lovely to have, I'm just feeling so lonely. I sit in the flat, in my chair, and all I want is for you to come in and sit down opposite me. That chair of yours symbolises everything that I feel. Empty, desolate, abandoned and without you. I confess that sometimes I have to stop myself from breaking down and crying in the evenings. It's pathetic, really, but I am so terribly, terribly alone that I am overwhelmed by the feelings of misery that you left me with. I can't stand it. This constant quiet and tidiness, without even a whiff of cigarette smoke to bring back flooding memories of your every breath. Losing you was losing the biggest part of myself, so now I'm a half-empty shell without a Sherlock. I need you. I am so lost. And now I feel like I will never be able to love again.

It's my birthday this week. July 7th. I never told you when it was and I never thought you'd noticed. Were birthdays even important to you? We didn't celebrate it last year, anyway. So yes. My birthday. Another year older.

But I don't want to have a birthday without you there. Even if the only gift you gave me was the chance to see your face, even if you didn't know or care. I don't think I can bear to pass this marker in my life without you there with me.

I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Forever.

Love,  
Your John.


	22. 11 07 2012

Dear Sherlock,

My birthday came and went even though you weren't there to share it with me. I am a year older but in my head I am still there, in the past, in the world where I existed with you. I can't stop time passing and I couldn't stop this birthday simply because of your absence, and I have to accept that, but I feel like my life is being wasted because I'm not enjoying it. My hours are not spent making memories, but rather lingering upon old ones.

Mrs Hudson gave me a shirt as a present, which is very nice and I've been wearing it a lot lately. It's quite smart, so it's better for going out with Greg or Sarah than just hanging around the house or wandering around London, visiting places that we have been together.

Nina somehow found out when my birthday was, so she baked and decorated a cake for me that tasted as good as it looked. And it looked divine. But I wouldn't have expected anything less of her, seeing how amazing she is at art. And she bought me this stationery so that I can write your letters on some good-quality paper. It's nice that she understands how I like to put effort into these.

Greg decided to get me a crate of beers instead. I've already finished them all. It's like he knew that I would need them, and got me them because I had to face the day without my Sherlock.

So it all went okay, and everyone was great. It just couldn't be the perfect day.

Something weird happened, though. A little blue notebook turned up on the doorstep when I got back from dinner with Sarah. It didn't have a note, and it wasn't wrapped, but my name was printed on the first page. It's probably from one of your "fangirls". But anyway, it doesn't matter.

Love,  
Your John


	23. 18 07 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I've been using that notebook that came through for my birthday to write a few little notes on the crimes that Greg tells me about or takes me to. I would leave the book here, but I'd be afraid that the groundskeeper would take it and not give it back. And yes, I have convinced Greg to take me to crime scenes again. I blackmailed him into it, saying that my birthday happiness would be ruined if he didn't. He asked me if it was for you, so I told him that everything I did and everything that I do is for you. He doesn't understand why I trust you still, but he accepts it and takes me along to any interesting cases so that I can just jot some notes down in my book. It's the colour of your scarf, and there's even a purple silk ribbon for a page marker.

It's the small details that count in a world where all the large pieces are missing. You knew that too, and that's why you were so good at what you did, because you saw all the little things. But what made it useful was the fact that you knew what all those details meant. Something that I've found can only be achieved through experience. You can't make yourself be a genius. You have to go out, explore the world and join the dots between people, objects and places, knowing what details connect them. And so you are able to deduce things from new people, objects and places. Your not-so-secret secrets are out.

So why aren't there more geniuses in the world? Well, not all people have the natural ability to see everything and find practically everything interesting, but that's not the main reason, is it? I think it's that most people either can't be bothered, or even though they claim to want to know everything. Actually, I think they'd just rather remain ignorant.

Am I right or am I wrong, Sherlock? Have I learnt anything from you, anything at all? But you can't tell me, so I'd better just forget it.

Love,  
Your John.


	24. 25 07 2012

Dear Sherlock,

This week's been very... Stationary for me, even though the hours at the hospital aren't getting any quieter. I haven't left the flat except to go to work. I haven't even done my own food shopping; Mrs Hudson did it for me because she knows all about my constant arguments with the self-service checkouts, and she said "I don't want you to stress."

She said that, because, well, things have happened that I don't particularly want to think about, but I must tell you, as you are my best friend and it would be wrong of me to keep it from you, as you have the right to know. I can't hold this information back from you, even though it breaks my heart to say it and it hurts me to hurt you.

It's your mother, Sherlock. She passed away on Monday, painlessly. So it was peaceful. I'm so sorry. She wanted you to have all her money, apparently. Said that you needed it more than Mycroft. And she said that it could be used to pay for a wedding... Between us. I don't know where she got that idea from. But she did. And that's the only reason why I found out about any of this at all, because I was mentioned in her will. Her will being that we would marry.

Mycroft sent me a letter telling me everything. It's the only contact I've had with him since I confronted him about selling your personal information to Moriarty before you died. It's nice to know that he had the courtesy to get in touch at all.

He told me her last words. He was there when she died, holding her hand. She said: "You be happy. You and Sherlock, be happy." Like she didn't know you were dead, and could be no more happy than I could. I wish we could have had that wedding.

Love,  
Your John.


	25. 01 08 2012

Dear Sherlock,

Mycroft transferred all of your mother's money into my bank account, and I couldn't tell him to take it all back, as I have no way to give him the message. It's so much, Sherlock! Far more than I'd earn in 5 years working at the hospital. So I paid Mrs Hudson all of the missing rent, but still I am sat on this ridiculously large sum of money, with no idea what to do with it.

I don't know why Mycroft gave it to me. I know he's got more than enough - more than he can spend, in fact - but it still doesn't make sense that he gave it to me. Perhaps it's just your brother's sense of humour. "Sorry that you can't have your wedding, John. Here's the money that you could have used to pay for it!" Yeah, I can imagine Mycroft doing that. And giving me that infuriating little smirk. Bastard. Even though he didn't know, and never will know, how I actually did want us to be together. Married.

So I thought about the wedding I would have chosen for us. I thought about what you would have wanted it to be like. Who you would have wanted to be there. The suit you would have worn, the shoes you would have chosen, how you would have worn your hair, the smile upon your face. I wonder what you'd have said in your vows. Would you have told me that I was an idiot? An amazing, brilliant idiot?

I would have said that you were my life, my whole life. The person who'd made me complete, and made me think that the stars were not beautiful in comparison to you. And, as I slipped the silver ring onto the third finger of your left hand, I would have told you that nothing would ever be the same again.

Love,  
Your John.


	26. 08 08 2012

Dear Sherlock,

All this extra money is making life very comfortable for me. I haven't dropped any work at the hospital, because it's best to have the constant, reliable income that it gives me, but I have fewer worries and life is easier on all of us. Mrs Hudson is definitely appreciating me lessening her money stresses. Although I don't think Nina has even noticed the increase in wealth in the household. Sometimes I forget how rich she is because she's always hanging around in frayed jeans, paint-spattered converses and vintage T-shirts. I swear she even has a pair of old denim dungarees. And of course everything she owns is covered in paint and ink. Just like a typical artist.

I would have liked to have heard more from Mycroft. It's cruel to ignore me for nearly half a year and then send me a letter and hundreds of thousands of pounds without as much as a word afterwards. It's rude. And to be honest, I would have liked the link back to you. He reminds me of you. And I know that's something that no brother ever wants to hear, but you were both observant and genius, and the way you interacted with the world was just the same. It's so hard to miss someone like this. It's tearing me apart.

Even after all this time. Even after all the therapy and the letters and the support, I have not changed. I have not improved. Half a year and I still feel the same pain. I can't help but wonder whether these scars will continue to rip my soul to pieces for as long as I will live.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," you said. I promise, Sherlock, that even though my eyes can no longer find you, I will always keep my heart fixed on you.

And until the end of my days, I will miss you and love you and cry over you. Half a year, and I am a wreck. How can I survive without you? I can't. I just can't, Sherlock.

Love always,  
Your John.


	27. 15 08 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. Please, Sherlock, please forgive me for what I have done. I couldn't take it anymore. I was so weak. Oh God, what have I done? I just need your forgiveness. Maybe then I can forgive myself.

You have no idea what I'm on about. But I can't say it. I am so ashamed of myself. I can imagine what your face would look like if you could see me now. You'd be so disappointed. And you'd say "John", like you did when I came out of that cubicle at the swimming pool so long ago.

Can you tell me the worst thing that a living person could do? Would it be to kill someone, or kill the ones they love? Would it be to rape, torture, cheat or murder? Or would it be something else?

Would you ever see me differently? Would you look at me with disgust or pity if I told you what I've done, and what I tried to do? Can I tell you everything and know that you wouldn't judge me? There's too many unanswerable questions in this letter, and I'm sorry for that, too.

Alright, Sherlock. Here it is.

I tried to kill myself. I cut my wrists, going up my arm, not across. I knew exactly how to do it, and I would have bled to death, had it not been for Nina. She found me within seconds. I don't know whether to thank her or damn her to Hell. I am so appalled at myself, appalled at the fact that I write this from the confines of a hospital bed with thick white bandages around my forearms and a drip in the crook of my elbow. They've put me on so many antidepressants that it's hard to feel sad. But I'm sad now. Sad that I've disappointed you.

I was just trying to find you again, Sherlock. Because that was the only way I thought this could go.

I am so sorry, Sherlock.

Love,  
Your John.


	28. 22 08 2012

Dear Sherlock,

They're going to keep me cooped up here in the hospital until my wounds have fully healed, to make sure that I don't try to pull the bandages off or the stitches out. They don't understand that I don't feel that way inclined anymore. I have never regretted anything more in my life. I'm having to get Nina and Mrs Hudson to deliver these letters now, I give them to them when the come to visit me. So now I have to properly seal my envelopes, because I don't want them to read what I write.

I can hear the nurses talking with them about moving me to some sort of depression clinic after they release me from here. I just thank God that Mrs Hudson is having none of it. I think she can see how defeated I am and that I'll never try anything of the sort again. She's fighting my corner, but I know the nurses are doubtful of her judgement.

I don't know what drugs they're putting in my drip, but whatever they are, they seem to be working. I don't feel depressed, but I couldn't say whether it was genuine recovery or just artificial happiness. I can't feel any pain in my wrists, so I must be on an extremely high dose of morphine, but when I move them, I feel the strangest tugging. Like now, as I write.

You would be distraught if you could see how I am now. A hollow, depressed, lonely man with no forseeable future. This could have ruined everything for me. My work, my relationship, my everyday life, my friendships.

I thought that if I could escape from the insanity of living without you, I'd be free. But it turns out that when I failed, it put more limitations on me than I'd have guessed was possible.

Love,  
Your John.


	29. 29 08 2012

Dear Sherlock,

They changed my bandages first thing this morning, and let me tell you, the stench was horrendous. The cuts are infected now, and it's bad. They say I should rest my arms, but I have to write to you. My wrists are inflamed and the right one's swollen a bit. They still don't hurt, and the doctors have been injecting antibiotics into them for the last five hours. They barely leave me alone.

I've been moved to a different ward, where there's only me and this other bloke who drank some bleach. He's been screaming for them to kill him since he got here. Morphine isn't doing enough for him, apparently. Poor man. It makes me look like a silly bastard in comparison. He wakes me up in the night, yelling and wailing. It annoys me sometimes, but I have to remind myself that he's not mentally stable, and in a lot of ways, just like me. A man with no options.

When I sleep, I don't dream. Too many drugs in my system. My mind can't function properly anymore. It's driving me to distraction. It's so boring just to lie in a bed all day, strapped down so that I can move nothing but my arms and head. I sleep all the time, even when I'm not tired because there's nothing else to do. Mrs Hudson brought Cluedo the other day, but I took one look at it and she knew I couldn't play. So instead I have the papers, which I've demanded be left with these letters when they're delivered to you.

They're so worried about me, and I feel terrible for causing them to be anxious. I was so selfish and so not like me that I look back and wonder how I could have done such a thing. But don't you worry about me, Sherlock. I'll be fine, I promise. You should know that I always keep my promises.

Love,  
Your John.


	30. 05 09 2012

Dear Sherlock,

To keep myself occupied whilst I wait for my arms to heal, I've decided to write a book. Mrs Hudson brought my laptop over and I started planning for it. You wouldn't be interested and you'd never read it, because it's a fiction. You don't read novels. It's a crime fiction, because I have more than enough experience in the field. You may think that it's going to fail miserably; my plot will be too obvious, my characters too stupid or my solution too unimaginative. But I hope that I've learnt enough from you that you won't be too shocked at it, and say that I have a noticeable lack of writing talent. I'm going to give it a title that you'll probably disapprove of. 'The Stand-Off Comedian'. Yeah, I knew you'd hate it.

The man on my ward was taken in for further surgery on his stomach to make it stronger. The had a difficult time deciding whether or not to carry it out, because no family has turned up to claim responsibility for him, and he's been saying that he didn't want it. But the doctors eventually resolved that he isn't mentally sound enough to make decisions for himself. I'm so glad that hasn't happened to me. Freedom to choose in life is one of the greatest gifts the humanity has been given. I miss being able to make my own way around the world, but I suppose I gave up that right when I chose badly before.

They're coming back for me now with about five different needles. God, I hate them. Alright, Sherlock, I'll write again next week. Do something you enjoy before then, because God knows I can't.

All my love,  
Your John.


	31. 12 09 2012

Dear Sherlock,

It was Nina's birthday on Saturday, and because I couldn't go out and buy her a present myself, I sent Mrs Hudson on a mission with my card. I decided to get her a Pandora bracelet, because Nina's that sort of sentimental person who loves to keep her memories in physical form. She paints all the things she sees, perfect down to the last detail. She has an amazing photographic memory. But it isn't just beautiful things that she paints. Mrs Hudson told me that she has a painting of me lying on the floor in Baker Street, surrounded by blood with the knife I used next to me. She paints things that stir her emotions, and I hope for her sake that she doesn't have to paint any more sadness.

The first bead I gave her for her bracelet was a smiley face, like the one you painted on the wall. It means 'Welcome to Baker Street'. That smiley face on the wall is still there, and it will never be covered up, nor will the bullet holes be filled in. Sentiment again, there.

She loved it, and as far as I could tell, she had a brilliant day. She came to visit me, and we had the birthday cake here. It was the first solid food I'd eaten since I'd been here, and the nurses looked delighted. They bring me proper food now, and I'm getting less thin - I lost a bit of weight whilst I was living off the drip. And there I was, always worrying about your weight and if you were eating, and now look at me!

My infection has gone down a bit, and the cuts are starting to knit together and scar. They aren't bad, for scars; they're only slightly puckered, and they are white; nothing like what I was expecting. But they are the ugliest things I have ever seen, even though they aren't half as bad as the scar on my shoulder.

Love,  
Your John.


	32. 19 09 2012

Dear Sherlock,

We've been so many places together, haven't we? We've done so many things without even realising it. Do you ever think about how many cases we have actually solved, and how much we've had to do to achieve any of that? I've saved your life, and you've saved mine, so many times that I've lost count. I miss that. All the trust that we had in one another. You could have called us friends up to any point in infinity. I miss you in every possible way, and I want you here, even if our relationship continued to be platonic and it went no further. Because just knowing that you were alive and by my side would make me happy.

I've said this a hundred thousand times, and I apologise for that, but I write what I am feeling, and I am feeling nostalgic. Wishing for the past. Again.

I should probably tell you that the infection is completely gone. My mind isn't any closer to recovering, though. I'm not suicidal, but I am shattered more now than I ever have been. My therapist visited me the other day, but I didn't book an appointment. Must have been Mrs Hudson, worried out of her mind. Ella told me that there was the possibility that my limp might return due to the trauma, but I quickly dismissed that idea. Whatever you have fixed in me will never be broken again. I couldn't care less what she thinks, because I'll show her. I'll show them all as soon as I can get back home.

I won't let myself down again, Sherlock. I promise.

Love,  
Your John.


	33. 26 09 2012

Dear Sherlock,

They told me this morning that I can go home on Friday! The bandages came off, and they weren't going to put any more back on, but I can't stand looking at them, so I asked them to. I can't even bear my own body now, but I can't wait to get out of here.

Of course I'm not going to be allowed to go home without an abundance of painkillers and anti-depressants. The worst thing is that Mrs Hudson has been given charge over them so she will keep them somewhere where I can't get to them to take an overdose to kill myself. And she had to give them to me and make sure that I take them. It's humiliating. But a necessary precaution, I suppose.

Tonight is my penultimate night in captivity. Well, I say that, but I know that for at least a year I won't be allowed to work and they'll try to keep me safe inside 221B for as long as they can.

No matter how many times I tell them that I will never attempt suicide again, they never believe me. Suicidal tendencies are a mental instability, so they have the right to doubt my words if they don't know that the rest of my mentality is sound. I would be concerned myself, as a doctor in their position. I would treat a person like me exactly the same as how they are treating me, so I can't blame them. I just want them to understand that I'm fine now. Or is that just the drugs talking?

Love,  
Your John.


	34. 03 10 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I am finally back home. After so much time in the hospital, it is a relief to be back in Baker Street, sleeping in my own bed, cooking in the kitchen, sitting in my chair. I missed it so much.

Defying my therapist's predictions, my limp has not returned, making the point that you will always keep that part of me fixed. It was a good moment for everyone when I walked again.

Mrs Hudson has been a dream these past few days; she's looking after me so well. She makes me cups of tea and brings me biscuits even if I don't ask for them. The only problem is that she's taken all the sharp knives away, and that really doesn't help when you're trying to chop up vegetables to make dinner. I've asked for them back, but she's adamant that I stay away from them, at least for a while. She chops the veg instead. And then she gives me my pills, twice a day. A mixture of anti-depressants and strong painkillers. I hate taking them. They make me feel like I'm not in control of my emotions anymore, and I can't trust myself and the way I feel. But she always makes me swallow them. When I try to pretend that I have taken them when I haven't, she looks so sad that I take them anyway, for her. But it's difficult.

As I assumed, work is off until everyone is entirely convinced that I'm fully recovered. Which could be a while. But at least I only have to convince them. If I actually had to recover, then I'd never get back to work. I want to get back so badly, though. I can't bear to be sat around doing nothing once again. Well, I have my book to write and Greg brings me cases now and again. I'm actually getting better at them. I just look at everything you'd look at - I've heard enough of your deductions to have some idea of what you're supposed to notice. I've so far solved two completely since I've been back. I'm proud of myself, and I hope that you're proud of me, too.

Love,  
Your John.


	35. 10 10 2012

Dear Sherlock,

This week was very boring. Sarah took me out to a Chinese/Pan-Asian restaurant (chopsticks, no knives), but I didn't really enjoy it. The food was excellent, but I'm still quite fragile and I have to admit that to myself. So it was boring. We barely spoke, because I have very little to talk about.

I've been writing my book, as I said I would. It's going rather well so far, and I've written quite a lot due to the extreme abundance of time that I have available. I expect I'll have the first draft finished by May. It's not enjoyable to write - It'd be strange to say that writing about horrific murders was enjoyable - But it's good for my brain. I don't know why you never tried this. Life would have been so much less dull for you. It's a great time-filler and it makes you think. Your book is as clever as you are, so I'd love to see what you'd have come up with. You could've written a non-fiction book, if novels don't suit you. You had a brilliant grasp of the English language. You should have at least tried. It could've brought a lot into the world.

I don't see my therapist anymore. I refuse to. Everyone seems to think that it'll help me cope with living with my attempted suicide and getting over you, but I know better. Only you can help me. It was only ever you who could help me. When I needed someone there, you came along. Why can't you do that now? Why can't some miracle happen that would bring you back? "Because miracles don't happen." you'd say. But I disagree, because you also said that heroes don't exist. Well they don't now but when one did exist, I knew about it. And to me, you were a miracle. Don't you try to tell me that I'm wrong, because you can't prove an opinion wrong.

Love,  
Your John.


	36. 17 10 2012

Dear Sherlock,

As if I ever needed reminding of how broken I am. I was fine, feeling much better about myself, and making dinner for us all. So I asked Mrs Hudson for a knife to peel carrots, and, seeing that I was feeling fine, she brought me one. I thought I'd be able to handle it. I was wrong.

As soon as I saw it, I froze. Then when she offered it to me I started screaming and holding my scars. I was crying and screaming and it was dreadful. She didn't realise that she'd brought the knife I'd actually used. There are still bloodstains on the handle. She ran away with it, and Nina came and pulled me in the shower, fully clothed. She left me, sat there under the hot water, still screaming and holding onto my wrists as though they would burst open again.

They called Greg over, and he came without need of an explanation. Why would he be needed in such a situation was a mystery to me but I was glad that he was there. It turned out that I'd scared the girls, and they couldn't do anything because they were afraid that I'd hurt them or myself. They called Greg for some muscle power.

I'd scared them, Sherlock. I'd scared the only friends I have left in the world. There is almost no worse feeling than to know that the people you love are afraid of you. It's horrible. I don't know how I can ever forgive myself now. I've ruined so many lives, and mine most of all. They were afraid that I would hurt them, but I would never and they should know that but they didn't, Sherlock. They doubted me and now I don't know how they will act around me now. Will they always be scared of me?

They're increasing my anti-depressant dosage. I won't be able to trust myself at all. I don't know whether the next letters I write will even be real.

I'm scared now, too, Sherlock.

Love,  
Your John.


	37. 24 10 2012

Dear Sherlock,

You haven't been easy to remember lately. The drugs they're giving me seem to be making it more difficult for me to remember things, and I hate that, because now I can't conjure up a picture of your face or the sound of your laugh. It's purposeful, I know it is. They know you're what's making me upset so they want to destroy all my memories of you so that I'll be happier. But memories are all I have and losing them would only make it worse. Make it stop, Sherlock. Please just make it stop.

I don't want to be left without you, without my past and without the memories that will allow me to learn from my mistakes. It was hard enough having you leave me the first time. I don't think I could stand losing everything I have left of you.

My novel's going fine, I suppose, if you wanted to know, but the mixture of actual misery and drug-induced lightheartedness is giving it a rather strange tone. As in, I'm using nice words to describe horrific murders, which could tell anyone a lot about my level of sanity right now. Not very stable.

I hope I'll be in a better condition when I write to you next. It's absolutely dreadful, knowing that you're reading all of these (sort of) and that it's probably hurting you, too. Because you'll blame yourself for all of this angst. But please don't; I don't blame you in the slightest.

Love,  
Your John.


	38. 31 10 2012

Dear Sherlock,

It's Halloween! I'm writing this straight from your grave tonight, sat on the damp, cold ground trying to figure out exactly what I'm doing writing it here rather than at home where it's warm and I have a real desk to lean on rather than my knee. Maybe it's because it feels quite magical here. There are candles in big glass jars and pumpkins with lights in and red lanterns hanging from the trees. It's really pretty, but I'm the only one here to notice it, because I don't think many people like to be in a dark, cold graveyard on Halloween night. Just me, then, who gets to see how extraordinary it is. Hats off to the groundskeeper, even though I still think he's stealing these letters and the papers I leave. Bet he doesn't have to buy his own now, he can just wait a week for these ones.

Mrs Hudson's been handing out all sorts of sweets and chocolate to the trick-or-treaters. I carved a pumpkin for the occasion - no trouble with the knife this time. Although it was a messy business to start with and a messy result at the end. I put the deerstalker on it, to keep its head nice and snug. You're probably hoping that it'll burn up, aren't you? Well let me tell you that it's quite safe and out of danger from any sort of flame. It's memories, Sherlock, so don't complain. Sentiment.

We dressed Lestrade up as a zombie. He looks fantastic! I'm leaving a picture so that you can see for yourself. He's a great sport. I'm so glad I got to meet him. Again, that's thanks to you.

Love,  
Your John.


	39. 07 11 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I've caught a cold since Halloween, and I think it's something to do with the fact that I wrote your last letter outside. So I'm a bit ill, and feeling a bit down. Not suicidal down, so that's okay. Unfortunately I can't take anything for it in case it interferes with my medication. But that's alright, because I'm in charge of my drugs now. They're in the bathroom cupboard, not locked away anymore. Mrs Hudson doesn't check to see if I take them, so I've been reducing my dosage without her knowing. I've been keeping the pills I don't take, disguised in an empty Vaseline pot that's on the top shelf in the cupboard. They're there for emergencies, just for when I might need them. I have enough for now, but when they take me off them I won't be getting any refills. And they'll take me off them before I'm ready because I do such a good job of keeping my true feelings hidden. I don't need all that they're prescribing right now anyway; I'm managing on this lower dose. So I'm making a stash. A secret supply. Your secret supply of cigarettes is still there.

Don't tell anyone about my drug abuse. It's our little secret.

I've been out and about recently, and that's due to my apparently improving condition and therefore Mrs Hudson is more relaxed about policing my activities. She was so worried before, and that's plenty reason to keep me close, but I'm glad for the freedom and Greg's been bringing me cases again.

I asked him whether he'd heard from Mycroft at all since you died, because they had some level of contact before then, and I wondered if it'd continued to any extent. I wanted to hear something from him, I suppose. He was your family, after all. The only family you had left. And now he's all alone, without mother or brother. God, it must be hard for him. But Greg didn't really answer me properly, so I'm assuming not, although he did get a bit tense. Reasons?

It doesn't matter anyway. Just wondered and I'm still confused as to why Mycroft's ignoring me still. I could always barge into his office again. I might, actually.

Okay, I'm running out of paper now. Would have liked to write more but I'm in the margin now.

I love you.

Your John.


	40. 14 11 2012

Dear Sherlock,

As I said I would, I went to see Mycroft at the Diogenes Club. I waited there for two whole days, sitting in the chairs, drinking Mycroft's expensive liquor when I got thirsty, not eating anything. Eventually they found me in there and forced me to leave without seeing hide nor hair of your brother. He's definitely avoiding me and I would love to know why. I haven't done anything to him, so there's no reason for him to be like this. Actually, I did have a go at him on the night before you fell, when I found out that he'd given Moriarty your life story. He said sorry. In fact, he told me to tell you that. I was too angry at the time to actually do it, and I didn't pass on the message. Bit of guilt. So, Mycroft said he was sorry. There.

But if anything, I should be the one avoiding him and he should be crawling to me, begging for forgiveness. Not that it'd do any good. I can't forgive him for this. You're gone because of him. And what did he get out of the trade with Moriarty? Nothing? He certainly didn't get the keycode.

Sorry, I'm ranting. Your brother is just so infuriating. I don't know how you could bear growing up with him.

So asides those two wasted days, life's been good in Baker Street. Or should I say as good as it could be with a depressed man, an abstract and often distracted painter and a wonderful landlady who works all day. We're a funny bunch, and not quite a whole one. There's one very important person missing from our patchwork family.

What I was going to say was that Nina's art has really been selling recently. She's found a group of extremely wealthy and interested customers who will buy her work mostly without question and at any price she asks. Her work's become more publicised since, and now she's been offered a one night for an exhibition at the Hickman Gallery. The Hickman Gallery. The Golem, the Lost Vermeer, Miss Wenceslas, The Van Buren supernova. "It's a fake." Yep. There you are, Sherlock. That's your genius at work right there. Yeah, that painting was a fake, but you weren't, Sherlock Holmes. You were very, very real.

If you remember, you saved my life that day, and I saved yours. That was... What we were about. You and me, there for each other, looking out for one another. Under all circumstances and without limits. I miss having you watching my back because now I have to watch my own. Makes life so much more difficult, especially since you were the world's most observant person, and now my own inadequate talents of observation will have to suffice. I may as well give up, because if someone wanted me dead now, I'd be dead. Full stop.

Let's not think about that, though, Sherlock.

Love,  
Your John.


	41. 21 11 2012

Dear Sherlock,

Facing the knife again this week was a challenge for me, so I'm back on my full dosage by personal choice. I was looking for a knife to peel apples to make apple crumble, and I just happened to pick that one up. I've had enough time now to be able to hold back the screaming, but the knife ended up being dropped on the floor with a bit of a shriek. Like I was a teenage girl dropping something that had a spider on it. So I haven't been so great. Maybe I'll just skip over this particular story. You know what this is for me so I don't have to explain it again.

On a lighter note, then, I went out for a few drinks the other night with Mike and Greg. We had quite a good time, even though I have an alcohol limit of 2 units. With all the drugs and the depression, I wouldn't expect any less. Not that it stopped Greg and Mike drinking bucketloads. I thought adults were supposed to be responsible drinkers, and they they both were, getting out of their minds when they had work in the morning. Mike's a teacher and Greg's a detective inspector, so neither are jobs where you can be intoxicated. Not the wisest decision of their lives.

They both called me during their breaks and they sounded awful. Mike's students were taking the mick, and Greg even said that he had to get Sergeant Donovan to drive him to work because he was still riddled with alcohol. He told her he'd twisted his ankle badly so he couldn't use the clutch in his car. He put a bandage on it to make his story more believable. Not that she couldn't smell the drink on him or anything. But she hasn't ratted out on him as far as I know. I'm assuming she will eventually, going by her records. Oh look, yet another person responsible for your death. What a pleasant woman.

Anyway, I've been seeing Molly again. She seems to be coming around more often, which is good. Today she dropped off a loaf of fresh bread straight from the baker's. I am under the impression that she's dating his son, so she's been getting more bread than she knows what to do with. She's well, and she's happy, and it was nice of her to bring us bread. We're having it with dinner tonight. Leek and potato soup, if you were wondering.

Love,  
Your John.


	42. 28 11 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I think they're going to let me work back at the surgery where I used to work with Sarah. Not the hospital just yet, but the doctors told me that I should try and get back to a normal life as soon as I can, so they advised I get back into a job. Nothing too stressful and nothing where I could hurt anyone accidentally. So yeah, I might be going back there soon.

But it was the normal life that caused me to get so low in the first place. Well, it was more about how I was pretending that everything was normal and fine and that even though you'd gone my life was no different. I don't think I'll be pretending this time, because I refuse to get depressed again. Besides, everyone knows how your death affected me so there's no point in trying to hide it.

I'm looking forward to work anyway. I do love helping people and I love being a doctor.

Updates on home life, then. News about people. Firstly, Mrs Hudson's great and doing well. Her hip's been bothering her less and less recently so her general happiness has increased and with it the happiness of everyone around her. We're all a little brighter for this improvement. Nina treated me to dinner yesterday, seeing as she's now probably richer than I am and I still have nearly all of your mother's money in my bank account. Greg misses you, and I know that because he and I are stuck on a case right now, and it's frustrating him particularly. We both know that you could have solved it for us, but for now people are dying and we can do nothing to stop it. Molly's very happy with the baker's son, Henry, and so far it's all going well for her. I'm glad that she's finally come back to us; it was weird not to have her around sometimes. I still haven't heard from Mycroft. I'm giving up now because he's obviously going to ignore all of my attempts at contact.

Still wishing you were here,

Love,  
Your John.


	43. 05 12 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I'm at work at the surgery writing this to you. It's surprisingly quiet today, but I suppose Wednesdays were always quieter than other days. Strangely enough, Monday seems to bring us the most patients. Because everybody loves Mondays.

The routine of work is helpful in distracting my mind from you. I'm not on drugs anymore so there's no artificial forgetfulness concerning memories that cause me harm. I still have the secret supply in the Vaseline pot in the bathroom cupboard. For days when I'm feeling down. But I work every day so there's not much time for me to think.

Some news is that I received and early Christmas present from Mike, because he's going away for the whole of the holiday season with his wife to America. I was going to wait until Christmas to open it but Mike insisted that he wanted to see my reaction so I complied. It turned out to be a pocket-watch. You know, like the one Mycroft has. It's on a chain and everything. It's the most beautiful little thing; mother of pearl face with diamonds inlaid where the numbers are, sterling silver with gold embellishments and gold hands. It's so gorgeous that I don't really want to use it in case it gets scratched. But I find myself carrying it around and checking the time on it, and truly I think it's a wonderful gift. Mike somehow knew that it'd be perfect for me, and I let him know how much I appreciated it. Must've cost him a fortune, though, and his income isn't all that great. A pretty proportion of his yearly salary must've gone into this present. I have to do something nice for him in return.

Isn't it that all the best presents are the ones with genuine use? I tend to find that. Giving someone a gift that doesn't have a purpose isn't very thoughtful at all. Giving someone a gift that they can and will use, on the other hand, is extremely thoughtful. Like a jumper, or a shirt, some stationery for letters or a little blue notebook that can be filled with deductions and inferences. I'd say that I'm quite good at finding gifts for people, but when I thought about what I would have gotten you for Christmas this year, I didn't have a clue. It seems impossible to think of anything you'd ever have need of.

Love,  
Your John


	44. 12 12 2012

Dear Sherlock,

It's 12/12/12 today, a rather momentous occasion. There won't be another date like this for nearly 100 years, which makes me feel lucky that I've been around to see it. Someone born tomorrow may never see a day that has all of its numbers the same. In some ways it scares me, because I won't live long enough to see another one. How awfully realistic.

So on this apparently special day, I've decided to go out for coffee by myself and just relax a bit. I've got no patients booked in for today and Sarah and the other doctors said that they could cover for me so I can take this much-needed time off. Sitting here in the café, drinking coffee with a slice of millionaire shortbread, a piece of paper and a pen. Doesn't get much more tranquil than this at 9 o'clock in the morning.

There's not much I can say about my life at the minute. Not much has been happening that's any different or interesting. Oh, but there was progress with that serial killer case I mentioned before. Greg was able to track down the murderer after receiving an anonymous tip. He jokes that it was you, because we can't think of anyone else who could have solved it. There's another consulting detective out there in the world somewhere! I'm kidding. There was only ever one and there only ever will be one. 

Though this letter will end up being relatively short, the excuse that I'm using is that you don't want to hear anything irrelevant or boring. So enjoy your newspapers, and have a good afterlife, if such a life exists.

Love,  
Your John.


	45. 19 12 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I've bought everyone's Christmas presents now, and I'm trying to get them all wrapped before anyone finds them. They're hidden in my wardrobe because some of them are extremely awkwardly shaped and quite large. It probably isn't the best place to try to hide them, but I can't find anywhere else. Don't chastise me for my unimaginative secrecy; we can't all be the Sherlock Holmes of hiding things. Wrapping them is proving to be rather difficult. I've wasted so much paper trying and failing.

I've had to spend a large amount of time over presents this year. Not because I have any more people to buy them for, but because I'm now rich and if I don't buy them enough then I'll seem stingy. They probably wouldn't look at it like that, but I'd feel a bit guilty. I don't resent it or anything, I have enough money not to be bothered by things like that, and I'm glad that I can treat them now. It's just a pressure that I could do without.

Greg and I have been running around on another case for the past four days. You'd have thought he'd learnt his lesson about consulting amateurs, what with how much trouble he got into over you. But I think he needs an outside eye, still reliant upon someone not legally able to intervene. It must be a comfort thing for him, but I'm happy enough to fill the space. We've been chasing down a thief, you'd have read about it in the papers. Broke into a jewellers and took everything he could carry, meaning a small rucksack full. We've been chasing leads all over the place, and we're getting close now, or so we think. We've found some of the jewellery on an online auction, and we can trace that back through the information that the thief failed to make invisible. He doesn't know how to submit items anonymously, apparently. Either that or he was in a rush and made a mistake. We're getting there, though, so that's an achievement.

Love,  
Your John.


	46. 26 12 2012

Dear Sherlock,

It's Boxing Day! Christmas so far has been fantastic, but that's not really any thanks to your brother. Mycroft sent a card, saying "Merry Christmas, 221B Baker Street. Mycroft Holmes." There was also a little present for us all, but I think I'm the only one who appreciates your old books on bees. They have pride of place on the bookshelf, and one's currently at the side of my bed because I was reading it last night before I went to sleep. I didn't know you liked bees, but I can see why you do. They are intelligent in a lot of ways, and their communities are complex and interesting. You were definitely the queen bee of Baker Street weren't you, Sherlock? The rest of us revolved around your extreme power, we did all we could for you. And we are all lost without you, with no purpose and we are in a frenzy of confusion. A new queen bee hasn't come to our dead hive, and no bee ever will.

Onto the exchange of presents, then. I got Mrs Hudson a new coffee machine for the café, which she is extremely grateful for. It makes excellent cappuccinos according to her. In return she gave me a new phone, a Samsung something, if you were interested. So now Harry's old phone has been passed on to Nina.

Nina herself gave me a painting, and I can't tell you how much it means to me. It's of you, standing at the window with your violin in your dressing gown, playing beautifully. I don't know how she managed it, considering that she's never met you, but then again she didn't paint your face, only your body and the back of your head. I felt inadequate when I revealed her present, which was a bicycle. It's got this vintage look about it, in shiny red. I got it for her because she was complaining about always having to order a taxi if she wanted to get somewhere more than five minutes away. She loves it, of course.

I got Greg a divorce for Christmas. And I'm being serious when I say that. I literally paid for his divorce. He finally decided to leave his wife, and he's much better for it. Doesn't have to worry about her running around with other men behind his back. To say thank you he got me a sort of job on the force, with official ID, so that what happened to you will never happen to me. An official consulting detective, or so it says on the card. It was a great present, and one that will prove extremely useful as I continue to solve more cases.

Molly came over to dish out our presents, which was a surprise to me even though I'd bought her one and she came around for Christmas before. She gave me a huge packet of chocolate chip cookies, which are surely intended to make me fat, and I gave her some diamond earrings that Mrs Hudson helped me to pick out.

Sarah gave me a tea set for the flat, because I accidentally broke yours when I dropped it in an encounter with the knife. Sorry. I got her a new watch, because the one she'd had kept stopping and the strap was wearing away. This watch is completely metal so that can't happen in the future.

Harry sent us some presents through the post, and what she got for me was a voucher for this recently-opened Italian restaurant called "Zizzi's". I'm planning on taking Sarah there sometime, and I'll report back if it's any good or not.

That's enough for now, I think. Well, I can't fit any more onto the page, so I'll include all other Christmas details in my next letter.

Goodbye for now,

Love,  
Your John.


	47. 02 01 2013

Dear Sherlock,

It was New Year yesterday and everyone came over again to our flat for drinks and dinner, which was good, but now we're all sleep-deprived and grumpy. So I'll tell you about the rest of Christmas now, shall I?

So asides exchanging presents, we passed around drinks - I had a glass of red wine or two - and we all sat down for dinner. A seemingly impossible task, considering the lack of a table big enough for us all. We couldn't use the kitchen one because it was serving as my kitchen counter. So Greg and I brought up a couple of tables up from the café and managed to get them through the door and set them up for a traditional Christmas meal. I made the dinner; it took me almost six hours to do all by myself. We had a huge roast turkey with sage and onion stuffing, and then a shoulder of pork just in case we ran out of that. There was a mountain of sprouts, carrots, cabbage, roasted parsnips and then there were all the roast potatoes - a mixture of normal potatoes and sweet potatoes. I roasted them in oil and not animal fat, by the way. I made the gravy from scratch, too. Mrs Hudson kindly donated a jar of cranberry sauce so I didn't have to make that as well. I would've been happy to, as cooking is sort of a new hobby of mine, but it made preparations a little easier.

It was delicious, if I should say so myself. We all had a good evening in terms of food and alcohol. There were loads of leftovers which we ate on New Year's Eve. We stayed up to see the fireworks and the clocks tick over.

I remember when it was New Year when you said "Happy New Year, John." and you played the violin at the window. That year with Irene Adler. We'd just found out that she hadn't died, and you played happy music for the first time since that Christmas Eve. How did you feel about her, really? Were you attracted to her? Were you actually sad when she was dead? Heartbroken? What was going on with you and her?

Needless to say, I was filled with jealousy whenever she was around. But I wanted you to find someone you could love, and even if it wasn't me, I still wanted you to be happy. So I didn't do anything. I could always put you before myself, no matter how painful it was for me.

I loved you that much.

Love,  
Your John.


	48. 09 01 2013

Dear Sherlock,

The holiday season is officially over now, as marked by Mike's return from his extended vacation in America. I managed to get his present to him, which is something that I probably spent more money on than I should have. But he deserved it. Seeing as he's spent all his money on this last holiday, I ended up getting him tickets for a fortnight's stay in Japan, all-inclusive, 5-star hotel and all the extras because he's not going to get the chance to travel for a long time otherwise. He was blown away when I gave them to him, but I wanted to do something really poignant for him. I owe him more than just the money's worth of a pocket-watch.

So life's calmed down a bit, and I've settled back into a phase where I am comfortable balancing what little work I have with my various and very varied hobbies, which now include cooking, detective work, and something else you don't know about. I've started learning the piano. I bought one the other week. It's a grand, and it stands in the kitchen where the table once was. The table was donated to Nina so that all of her art stuff no longer clutters the floor, and it can now reside upon the table. I'm not very good yet; I'm learning the most simple tunes. I don't have a tutor, I've decided to teach myself because I couldn't bear the thought of regular lessons that I'd have to miss if a case came up. It's so far not boring to me, so let's hope that I'll eventually be good enough to be able to compose for myself, even though I'm probably too old to be learning an instrument now.

Then of course there's my writing, which takes up most of my time in the evenings and through the sleepless nights that still haunt me. The book's going well, but I've had to go back and alter a lot of the plotline because I found that the way I want to take the story didn't match up with the beginning. That held me back, but they were necessary corrections. I couldn't stand for this murder mystery to be inadequate, because it would be like shaming you, and I would never do that.

I'm feeling lonely right now, so I'm going to ring Greg or Sarah or someone, otherwise this loneliness will just depress me.

Lonely without you,

Love,  
Your John.


	49. 16 01 2013

Dear Sherlock,

A year ago yesterday, you died. Which made yesterday extremely difficult. Impossibly difficult. More difficult than I had ever imagined it might have been. I went back on the anti-depressants, seeing as I could hardly get out of bed in the morning. Mrs Hudson left me alone for most of the day, and I only really saw her when she brought up a Chinese when it was time for dinner. I didn't see Nina at all. I expect Mrs Hudson warned her away.

I just sat in my chair, only getting up for food or water. I'm not even sure if I ate regularly because the time seemed to drag on and I wasn't watching the clocks. I wasn't doing anything except trying to stop myself from breaking down and crying. All I could see when I closed my eyes was you on the rooftop, you falling through the air, you lying still on the pavement with blood streaking your face and your lifeless eyes. It was enough to drive me into some sort of insanity.

It felt like a knife was being twisted in my gut for the entirety of the day. Dear God, Sherlock, it's been so long. One year without... Well, anything, really. It's been torturous and so empty; I don't know what real, blissful happiness feels like anymore. Jesus, Sherlock. I can't bear this. I've turned into some kind of zombie, one that can't think properly, can't function. The dramas of life seem no more dramatic than a biscuit crumb on the floor. Everything is irrelevant. Unimportant.

I got to the point where I thought I couldn't survive, and you know how that made me feel. Truth is, surviving isn't the same as living. I stopped living long before that point. I'm dead inside and I have been for a year and a day.

How long is it going to be, Sherlock? How long before all this ends? One year has already gone by. Will there be another? Another two, another three? Another fifty? Am I really counting down until my death just because I haven't the strength to decide when it will be and I don't see the point in this existence anymore? You're gone and I know that. I have to accept it even though it all seems so unrealistic and I'm in complete denial that I should never see your face again. All I'm left with is the ever-present image of your bloodied skull and your white lips.

One whole year, Sherlock Holmes. Jesus, I can't even tell you how much I miss you.

Love,  
Your John.


	50. 23 01 2013

Dear Sherlock,

Hello again. I'd ask you what you've been doing lately, but I know what you've been up to. Lying six feet below the ground, cold and probably rotting by now. It's a horrible image, and not one that I want to associate with you. I'm not going to think about it, and I will do my best to forget it.

Shall we talk about my life? Seeing as there's not really much else to discuss. I'll start with Greg, because we've been on a rather interesting case lately, concerning a man having his daughter married off to a Spanish man named Fernando Juan. Mr Juan, however, disappeared with his new wife within the week and her father got extremely anxious. He hasn't heard from his daughter since she disappeared, yet they had always been extremely close and she would never have run away without saying something. So now the father's terrified that he's married his daughter to a madman, and he called the police in to help him find her. We've gotten as far as to trace Mr and Mrs Juan back to a hotel on the outskirts, but after that there was no trace, so the case was abandoned by most officers. But Greg and I have hopes that we will find Isabella Juan and her husband, so we've continued (however unsuccessfully). I hope something will turn up so that we don't have to tell her father that she will probably never be found.

In Baker Street, Mrs Hudson and Nina have been running the shop between them. Nina's taken a break from her artwork to help Mrs Hudson out and decorate the cakes that I make for the café. She said she needed some time away from a paintbrush, which is very true. She usually has one tucked behind her ear, but not this past week. She has a tiny tube of icing there instead. The customers apparently love the cakes so much that they demanded a regular menu of the cakes we sell, meaning that I'm baking every day now. Ginger, chocolate, walnut, carrot, Victoria sponge... Any cake that you can name (within reason) and it's in the oven right now. I'm not complaining though. They pay for themselves in more ways than one.

A recent achievement of mine is that I can now play 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' on the piano! It's terrifically easy. I play it nearly all the time now just because I can, and I think it's annoying Mrs Hudson a bit, because sometimes when I'm around she starts humming it, then she realises what she's doing and shuts up immediately. She made me promise that I'd learn something else that's less infuriating before long, so I've set my sights on the popular piece 'Chopsticks'. I'm still rubbish at it, so it's 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' for now.

Speaking of music, I tuned your violin for you, and I gave it a quick polish. Thought you'd want it in good condition, despite the fact that it'll never be played again. I promise I'll get some new strings for it the next time I go to the music shop.

Love,  
Your John.


	51. 30 01 2013

Dear Sherlock,

I was on a particularly dangerous case this past week, and I'll tell you now that I never want to have to do something like it again. It was a simple case of a small band of murdering vagabonds, but when I tried to interfere I got a bullet in my chest for my trouble. I'm alright, I suppose. Not dead at least, just a bit bruised at the minute, nothing for you to worry about. But I've taken some time off work whilst I recover. Now I think about it, I wonder how I managed to get myself shot when I spent half my time looking down the barrel of a gun when I was with you, but not once did I actually get shot. Yet now I get hit when I'm probably the safest I've been in years.

Everyone's been a great help whilst I've been in R&R. Mrs Hudson cooks my meals and makes me a cup of tea every now and again. She's been an angel, as she always has been. When I was in hospital she brought me some edible food so that I didn't have to eat the hospital shit. It was awful to be on a gurney again, so I got myself discharged after a day. I'm an army doctor, I can deal with bullet wounds.

Lestrade looked awfully guilty when he came to see me on Sunday. He kept apologising, saying that it was his fault that I got shot because he sent me in there and put me on the case. I told him over and over not to be like that, because I hadn't died and I was just doing my job. It's not like I haven't been wounded in action before.

But sometimes I think Lestrade blames himself for your death, seeing as he was the one who came to arrest you and forced you to run away in the first place. Maybe he thinks that if he'd let you stay in Baker Street and hadn't tried to take you in then you wouldn't have jumped off St. Bart's and you'd have solved all the stuff with Moriarty and proved that you weren't a fraud. But I've told him that Moriarty would always have gotten to you somehow, and the result would have been the same. And don't tell me you were a fake, because I will never believe it. Moriarty was responsible for your death, and I am certain of that. I don't know how, but he made you jump off that building. I wish I knew what happened back then, Sherlock. I just want to know.

Love,  
Your John.


	52. 06 02 2013

Dear Sherlock,

I've met someone. She's called Mary Morstan, and she's fantastic. And I know and you know that my heart belongs to you truly, but I'm afraid that if I don't start living my life in the present day then I'll be alone forever. And I assumed you would never want that for me. So we've got a date on Friday night. I know you think the cinema is dull (there's no good films on anyway), so I want to take her out for dinner and drinks afterwards.

She's a lot like me, is this woman. Maybe a little like you, too. Has a good sense of humour, a smile that lights up the room. I reckon you'd like her, even if she'd annoy you at first. You were never really too keen on any of my previous girlfriends. Not that she and I are that close yet - we only met once. But if I have any justification for choosing her, it's that she's have probably been one of those rare individuals who you could actually grow to care about.

I wouldn't have told you this if I wasn't sure. I tell you just about everything, but my love life's a little different than everything else. Not that if you were still here, greeting me when I returned to Baker Street after a long day's work, you wouldn't be able to deduce all of my romantic endeavours from just one glance.

I want you to be happy for me. Just for once. And I want to be happy. And maybe this woman is the light at the end of the darkest tunnel in which I have set foot in all of my life. I'd say "you know how it is" but truth is, I think you never did understand love as the rest of the world does. But then you understood the world better than anyone else so what would I know? You know the chemistry, at least. I wonder, though, if you ever did experience the effects for yourself. With Irene Adler, perhaps? I still don't understand what you saw in her. Intelligence? Wit? A loathing of all things lawful definitely (including your brother - who still hasn't spoken to me).

So this shall be the last you'll hear from me. I promise. It hurts me as much as it might hurt your rotting skeleton, but I have to move on. I have to let go. And that means I have to stop writing letters to your worn and weary corpse. Even though we both know I'll never get over you. You're in my mind every day, invading every thought and action and smile that touches my lips. You are, and forever will be, my love.

I won't forget you, Sherlock Holmes.

My Sherlock.

So here are my last words.

I am yours.

John.


	53. "Sherlock."

John walked hastily through the rain, out of St. Bart's hospital and onto the gloomy main road, his bloodshot, tired eyes squinting through the heavy droplets that ran down his face like clotted tears. He scanned the street, snapping his head from side to side, with his forearm upon his brows in an attempt to keep the rain out of his eyes as he searched for a taxi to take him home. Unwilling to stand out in March's night-time weather for longer than necessary, John turned his collar up against the downpour and hurried to the shelter of a nearby bus stop.

He swore quietly under his breath as he hugged himself to keep warm, shoving his frozen hands under his armpits so that his fingers would still be able to function. Thankfully, it wasn't a long wait before a darkened shape with a bright orange light affixed to it came wandering down the road, approaching him.

"Taxi!" John called, putting one arm up into the air as he came to the edge of the pavement. The indicator flashed as the taxi pulled in.

John threw open the door and slumped into the back seat as he gasped at the pleasant warmth that circulated around the cab. He slammed the door quickly upon himself. "221B Baker Street, please," he said as he rubbed his hands, trying to bring the circulation back into them.

"Right you are," replied the cabbie, and he pulled back out and began driving along the familiar roads that John knew would take him back to Baker Street.

John closed his eyes for a brief second, relaxing for the first time since he had started his night-shift at the hospital. His limbs slumped, entirely peaceful, and John felt himself drifting… He shook himself back into consciousness quickly and internally scolded himself for almost falling asleep. It wasn't long before he'd get home, and then he could sleep without interruption or the fear that the cabbie would take him somewhere he had no reason to be for the purpose of committing murder by suicide.

John winced. It had been three long years since he had lost his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. Three long years of writing countless letters to his dead comrade, describing every detail of every week. For three years he had mourned, and each new day did not make the loss easier to bear. In fact, it made it harder for John to remember his friend's face, which only led him to cling onto all the memories of Sherlock that he had left. He… would not… think about Sherlock tonight. He would never get to sleep if he did, and sleep was what his body desperately needed, although his brain seemed to cancel his bodily needs out of his priorities whenever Sherlock came into his thoughts.

The cab journey was taking too long, for some reason, and John's eyes flashed to the scenery outside the window, but the scene was not unexpected, they were still the same roads that he travelled down nearly every day and every Friday night. The journey was only seeming to take too long because recollections of Sherlock were tormenting John's shattered mind.

"Here we are." The cabbie's voice cut through John's reminiscing as the taxi slowed and came to a stop outside the black door of 221B, with its brass numbers emblazoned, unchanging, upon the wood.

"Thanks," John said drowsily as he pulled out his wallet and handed a twenty-pound note to the driver, who passed the correct change back before wishing John a good night. John clambered out with an acknowledging nod.

John drew out his keys from his pocket, and his fingers fumbling in the bitter cold as he struggled to fit the right key into the door. Once he had managed that, he began to turn the key anticlockwise to unlock it. Much to his surprise, the key suddenly stopped turning without the audible click that signified the lock turning over. John frowned, withdrew the key from the lock and turned the door handle, not expecting it to move and for the door to swing open as it did.

He had locked the door, he was sure of it. He'd checked the handle twice, as he always did before leaving for his Friday night-shift, just to make sure that Mrs Hudson and Nina would be completely safe at night. He never left it open. Something was wrong.

His movements became silent, and John pricked his ears into the deathly quiet as his military training kicked in. His footsteps became little more than the sound of soft pats upon a pillow, and his hand reached automatically into his inner jacket pocket for his gun, which wasn't there because he never took it to the hospital. John cursed soundlessly, but carried on in through the door and slowly up the stairs.

As John arrived at the top of the stairs, he could see that the door to the flat was closed, which was not how he had left it. He'd kept it open as he'd left, not seeing the point in closing it. Whoever had unlocked the front door and had shut this one obviously wanted to give John some warning of their presence. No one would make such huge mistakes. John whizzed through all the people it could possibly be. Lestrade? No. Mrs Hudson would have had to let him in. Mycroft, perhaps? That wasn't so far-fetched, considering Mycroft probably had the keys to every building in London.

But why would Mycroft have left all of the lights off? He wasn't one of those people to go sneaking around in the dark.

John advanced carefully, reaching slowly towards the door handle, turning it cautiously. The door opened onto a cold, empty, pitch-black 221B. There was not even the slightest movement from the shadows. John edged into the flat, his breaths short and shallow as his eyes flicked around with paranoia. He shuffled across the room to the desk, where his gun lay in waiting for his hand.

As soon as he'd picked it up, John felt safer. There was potentially someone who wanted to kill him somewhere in his home, and having the gun gave him more confidence. He did not dare turn on the lights, though, because even though it would give him the advantage that he would be able to see the intruder, the intruder would also be able to see him.

After one final search of the living room, John ventured into the kitchen. Aware of the noise that his shoes were making on the tiles, his heart quickened in dread with every step. But there was no one crouched in the darkness beneath the table or next to the fridge, which was humming monotonously in the background. Nothing had moved from where he had left it. John breathed an internal sigh of relief, which was quickly followed by a moment of blind panic.

My bedroom.

John spun around and strode across the room and out of the flat. He pressed himself against the wall as he climbed the stairs to the upper floor, where his bedroom was. Adrenaline hit his blood, giving his cheeks a sweet flush. He raised his gun, pointing it at his door with a speeding pulse, finger on the trigger, ready at a moment's notice to twitch and fire.

His door was shut, and so far the only door that was as he'd left it. John reached out with his unshaking left hand, closing his fist over the brass handle, and with a moment's hesitation, he twisted it and threw the door open with a crash. John peered into the blackness with his gun held out before him, aiming into nothing as his head spun, expecting an attack at any minute. But none came.

The clinking had stopped. "Come out, or I will shoot you," John threatened into the gloom. But no response came from that direction.

"John?" Nina's voice sounded up the stairs from his flat, as she had come up to check if he was home. "John, is that you?"

John gave a heaving gasp of relief. "Yeah."

"Okay. Night, then," she called, oblivious to John's fright.

"Yeah… Night," replied John, bemused. He chuckled to himself and laughed at his own paranoia. "Idiot," he whispered to himself with a grin, before he thumped down the stairs again to get a drink before he went to bed.

He snapped the kitchen light on, and set his gun down on the counter next to the kettle, humming to himself as he did so. He reached merrily into the cupboard to get a glass, and set the tap running. As he waited for the water to get cold, he heard drumming through the wall. John froze, then reached for the tap to turn it off again. His brows pulled together as the drumming sounded again.

His gun was in his hand without a conscious thought. Through that wall was Sherlock's bedroom, and it had been sealed up as tightly as a tomb for nearly three years. He had not gone in, nor had Mrs Hudson, nor had Nina. The drumming came again. Thump, thump-thump, thump. Thump, thump-thump, thump. Like a double heartbeat. John's own skipped.

He skirted around to Sherlock's door, his movements like a stalking cat's as he padded across the floor. A tightness built in his throat as he felt genuine fear for the first time in three years. John's fingers closed on the handle, and the thrumming stopped. Silence hung as heavy as treacle, but it was far less sweet.

The handle ground noisily as John turned it, his stomach in his mouth and his gun raised and pointed. He blinked twice into the shadows as his eyes adjusted from the light of the kitchen, and saw a tall, shady figure stood at the foot of the dust-laden bed.

The figure's head was slightly bowed, and he faced away from the door, and away from John. There was something wistful and apologetic about the way he leaned onto his heels, and John's unfailingly steady hand trembled as he realised.

John's heart wrenched and twisted. It burned and it writhed as his lips moved in anguish and disbelief, his brain screaming against this impossibility but his eyes certain in their judgement. He floundered helplessly as he held back tears of frustrated sorrow and relief. The lump in his throat suffocated him and all the words that he wanted to say until the only thing that could escape was –

"Sherlock."

And, incredibly, the man at the foot of the bed lifted his head up, breathed out a single, long breath, and turned to face his John.

His eyes flamed astonishingly, as green as emeralds and as passionately sorry as the licking waves as they washed away sands. That mouth, so perfectly formed, was curved into a hidden smile that asked only for forgiveness. Every angle of his face was so fragile in the broken light that John was afraid that his bones would surely snap. The cheeks were too hollow, the skin drawn too tight over his jaw as he said –

"John."

His voice was breathtaking. The tones rushed over one another, his dark voice, his vital voice, swept across the letters, caressing every one. John's knees buckled, and Sherlock caught his friend just before he hit the floor.

"John," Sherlock said again, but concerned this time. "John, are you alright?"

John shook his head, trying to clear it. Then his lips managed to override his shock. "No, Sherlock… I'm not… Alright," he managed to say as he picked himself out of Sherlock's arms, tugging his shirtsleeves down as he did so. "You…"

"I'm not dead?" Sherlock said, reaching out for John's arm, but John pulled it away as though disgusted. "No, John. I never was."

John felt his anger building up from the ashes of his initial disbelief, and he knew he couldn't suppress it, even as he saw the guilt in his friend's eyes as he said: "You… Let me believe that you were dead! How could you? How could you leave me like that, jumping off the hospital, your blood all over the ground? Do you have any idea how that felt, Sherlock? How could you do that to me when you knew what it would do to me?"

Sherlock's face contorted. "John, please –"

"No, Sherlock!" John snarled. "Not 'please'. Not anything at all! You can't possibly make me forgive you, because you don't leave your friends, Sherlock. Not like that. Not like that."

"Let me explain, John –" Sherlock begged.

"No!" John roared into his face. "No! You can't explain this. There's nothing that you can say to make this better! Do you have any idea what you left me to? How you destroyed my life?"

Sherlock went quiet. His eyes were closed. And he turned his face away, so that John couldn't see him anymore. "I know everything, John," he whispered into the emptiness. "I know what has happened to you, and I am so, so sorry."

John stopped, his heartbeat resounding in his ears as he forgot to breathe for a second. His gun dropped to the floor with a muffled thump. "You…" he stammered. "You… Read… My letters."

"Yes."

John's hands went up to cover his face, and in horror he ripped a breath through his clenched teeth. He looked up at the ceiling as his palms came together in front of his neck. He let his lungs throw an aggravated huff into the room. "So you know, then," he finally concluded from the mess of terrified thoughts that squirmed inside his head.

"Yes," said Sherlock slowly. "And… It's fine."

John frowned and his head tilted to the side in confusion. "What?"

"It's fine, John," Sherlock repeated.

"How can it be fine, Sherlock?" John demanded. "How can it be fine when you know… How I feel about you?"

Sherlock caught John's eye and held it with certainty. "I don't mind, John. It doesn't matter."

"Of course it… Matters," John spluttered. "You don't –"

"I don't what, John?" Sherlock interrupted. "I don't know, I don't understand? Because I am telling you now that I do. And it's fine. I don't care that you love me. It doesn't matter because it's not going to change anything between us. I can't imagine a life without you, so I'm not ever going to let you go, especially not over something as insignificant as that."

"Insignificant?" John's voice was edged with pain.

"Yes, John. It's just sentiment," Sherlock smiled. "As I said: insignificant."

John's voice was caught as he shrugged, apparently nonchalant. "Right." And he spun around to head out of the room.

"John." Sherlock's hand caught his retreating shoulder. "John, show me."

"Sherlock –" John began.

"No," Sherlock said. "Show me, John."

"I can't."

"Please."

John looked over his shoulder into the begging eyes of his companion. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't."

Without another word, he walked away, leaving Sherlock Holmes, the love of his life, alone in the dark.


	54. "Just Tell Me"

It had barely gone dawn, but John Watson awoke instantly to the screeching sound of an out-of-use violin. He could have screamed with frustration, but he could have cried with happiness. Sherlock Holmes was back. Sherlock Holmes was downstairs. The smell of coffee wafted up the staircase like nothing had ever changed, like those three years had not passed. It was as though Sherlock had never been gone.

John sat up, knowing full-well that he would not be able to get back to sleep. Wearily, he pulled his clothes on and wandered downstairs, to where the grinding music of the violin was accompanied by unsatisfied grunts.

The sight of Sherlock stood at the window in his blue dressing gown with his violin cradled under his chin was almost too much. The light that streamed in through the window was so familiar as it touched his every pore, and John just stared with his face the very picture of contentment. "Coffee?" Sherlock asked without looking round.

John was speechless for a second. "Yes, please."

"Well the kettle's over there," Sherlock replied.

"Is it boiled?"

"It was half an hour ago."

John gave an unexpected laugh, and Sherlock turned to look quizzically at him. "What?"

"Nothing," John sniggered. "Just… You come back after three years asking for my forgiveness and you can't even make me a cup of coffee in the morning."

Sherlock's smile crept across his face like the rising sun, slowly breaking across his face and illuminating the room in an instant. John internally fell to pieces. It had been far too long since he had seen that smile.

But it was gone before he'd had time to fully register its existence as Sherlock turned back to look out of the window and continued to nurture his violin back into health. Coffee, John decided, and he strode into the kitchen, a small bounce in his step.

He switched the kettle on, and got out a mug from the cupboard. As he did so, he paused and shouted across the room to Sherlock. "Do you want another coffee?"

"If you wouldn't mind!" Sherlock answered. "Black –"

"– Two sugars. Yes, I know." John closed his eyes and grinned. "I know how you like your coffee."

He set another mug down on the surface, next to his own, took the jar of coffee granules and spooned a teaspoon into each, then two sugars into Sherlock's. The kettle clicked as the bubbling reached its maximum, and John poured the steaming water into both cups. He stirred; his first, and then Sherlock's to avoid the possibility of even a hint of sugar in his coffee. He returned to Sherlock to find him sat in his chair, violin discarded on the desk, and his hands pressed together, his finger resting upon his lips. "Please sit down, John," he said seriously, all hints of light-heartedness gone from his stern eyes.

Now cautious, John took his seat opposite Sherlock. "I owe you an explanation, John," Sherlock began, holding his gaze.

John coughed and took a sip of his coffee. "Yes. You do."

"Can I tell you, from the beginning, or would you prefer a question-and-answer?" Sherlock asked amiably.

"Just tell me, Sherlock. And I'll ask questions if I want to," John said, settling back into his chair, adjusting his cushion to a more comfortable position.

"I told you that I was a fake. And you were right, it was a lie. I am not a fake." He said the word with disgust. "I am appalled that anyone believed me at all, but then, I did expect it. It was only human for them to doubt me.

"But why did I say it, in my very last moments? Why did I tell you specifically? It's because I had to make them believe that you had nothing to do with my death or my life. I had to make sure that no one ever suspected that you were affiliated with my supposed plotting. I had to keep you safe, John. Safe from the entire world because you would have been arrested, your career would have been ruined, and potentially people who were attached to Moriarty would have tried to kill you. I could think of no other way to ensure your ultimate safety.

"I went along with Moriarty's fabrication that I was a fake genius who hired an actor to make me seem like a mastermind, because it was the easiest option. You wrap lies up in reality and they become so much more believable. Everyone believed that I was a fake anyway, and telling them straight out that I was only confirmed their fears. I told you to tell everyone who would listen, because then they'd know that you had nothing to do with me. But you didn't do that, John. I wasn't really expecting that you would – your loyalty was too great, your faith in me too strong – but you should have trusted me and did as I commanded that you do."

"Commanded?" John interjected.

"Yes, John," snapped Sherlock. "It was a command, not a request. Don't interrupt."

"But I said I was going to ask questions," he protested.

"I didn't give you permission to ask stupid questions, though." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Can I continue now, or would you like to comment a little more on my word choices?"

"No, no. It's fine," John said quickly. "Go on."

"So, after clearing your name, I jumped from the roof of St Bart's."

"Why?"

"Moriarty was there. We arranged to meet, to end our game. I showed him that I knew the code to unlock the world, but the code wasn't real. It was an invention with no purpose whatsoever. Daylight robbery, he told me. That's how he got into the Tower of London. He just needed some co-operative people. Not exactly hard to find when sentiment is so common in people nowadays and you have enough money to pay thirty million just to get my attention.

"He knew it would end there, up on the rooftop. And so did I. The three remaining assassins had orders to kill you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade if they didn't see me jump from the rooftop. Moriarty unfortunately let slip that he could call them off, if he wished. He killed himself, so that I couldn't get him to say it, so that I wouldn't have a way out. He gave me a choice of myself or my friends, and I would never have chosen to save myself.

"I had to jump. And that wasn't a choice. You had to see me fall and even though it broke my heart to see you and hear you in total despair, I had to do it. I didn't want to hurt you, but it was either that, or you would die."

"But how did you not die? I saw you on the ground. You were bleeding. You didn't have a pulse," John pressed. "You knew that Moriarty would make you jump so you came up with some sort of plan to save yourself. How did you do it?"

"It's irrelevant, John."

John's eyes widened in disbelief. "Irrelevant?!"

"Yes, John. Irrelevant. Now stop interrupting me with stupid questions!" Sherlock barked with an exasperated gesturing of his hands.

"Sherlock –"

"Shut up, John."

John's jaw dropped open; something that Sherlock ignored entirely. "The question you should be asking," Sherlock said. "Is why I had to pretend to be dead for three years."

"Yeah," said John. "Why did you pretend to be dead?"

Sherlock's smile returned, and his eyes glimmered with mischief. "Being dead gives you a tremendous amount of freedom. No one can track you, blame you or catch you, because you technically don't exist. And of course, that's a very useful asset when you're trying to disable a spider's web."

"You were taking care of Moriarty's contacts?" John asked, startled.

Sherlock smirked. "Oh, I wasn't really 'taking care' of them, as such. The term I'd use would probably be 'destroying', but if 'taking care' works for you, then I'll accommodate for that."

"Sherlock," John said. "Were you killing people?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock said with serenity, leaning in to John, piercing him with his regarding stare, daring him to challenge. John did not rise to it, so Sherlock resumed his explanation, watching John's reactions very closely. "I had to disable Moriarty's assets, because they were a threat to me, and to you."

"And you came back now because it's over? Because there's no one left that I need protecting from?"

Sherlock pulled a face. "No, not exactly."

John sighed. "There's someone that wants to kill me, isn't there?"

"Erm… Yes, there is," Sherlock looked at John guiltily. "There's someone I missed. But it wasn't easy to find him. He was one of the central cords of the web…"

John snorted hysterically. "There's someone that wants to kill me, and you're worried that I'm going to judge you for not finding him before he decided to kill me!"

Sherlock jerked back. "Yes."

"Dear God, Sherlock," John sighed with laughter. "What is it like in your funny little brain?"

"I don't believe that memorising my words and spitting them back out at me will ever have any affect as it just shows how unoriginal you are," Sherlock said in a low voice. "And my brain isn't small, either."

John's only reply was to snort into his coffee. Sherlock pouted like a child, and John snickered again. "Oh, it's good to have you back, Sherlock," he beamed.

"Even if it means that someone's going to try to have you murdered?"

"Especially if it means that someone's going to try to have me murdered. Because I know that you're here to protect me. Not that you've done a very good job." John gave him a raised eyebrow. "All that effort to keep me safe and you still fail miserably."

Sherlock looked offended. "I kept you safe for three years! Isn't that enough?"

"Not really, Sherlock. If you were going to leave me, pretend that you'd died, break my heart and ruin my life, you could have at least kept me safe for a lifetime," John said jokingly.

But Sherlock's face fell, and he sat back into his chair with his right hand on his eyebrow, holding his shame back. Water shimmered in his irises, and his expression contorted into one of pain as he sniffled, just once. John felt instantly awful. "No, Sherlock, I didn't mean it. I wasn't being serious. It's okay, I forgive you. It's alright, Sherlock."

"No, John." Sherlock's voice was rasping and choked. "It's not. That's all true. What you just said then… It's all true. I should have at least… I shouldn't have ever had to come back. Because me coming back must have hurt you just as much as me leaving you did."

John leant forward, reaching out until his hand came to rest on Sherlock's knee, comforting him through touch. "Listen to me, Sherlock," he said with absolute conviction. "Nothing, and I mean nothing,was worse than watching you fall. Nothing was worse than seeing your body lying broken on the ground, and nothing more devastating than going to your gravestone every single week, praying that you would come back to me. Seeing you… Having you back… It's the greatest gift that I could possibly ask for. So don't ever feel that you shouldn't have come back to me. Not ever."

Their eyes were locked, and their silence absolute. Sherlock looked at John from beneath his dark curls, his expression totally dumbstruck, with his lips slightly parted as he gazed into John's steady, unyielding stare. His friend was like a rock, so sure and unmoving that Sherlock knew that he could believe every word he said when it was with such utter conviction. John's breath was steady, bringing Sherlock back down to Earth and into reality. John's love was something he could rely upon, always.

Sherlock was at once lost, for the first time in his life, for words. "Th-thank you, John," he stammered. Stammered? John was more than surprised, as was evident by how far his eyebrows had shot up his forehead.

"Okay," said John briskly. "So who exactly is trying to kill me?"

Sherlock snapped out of his flustered stupor in an instant. "Ah, yes," he said. "The man's name is Sebastian Moran. He was Moriarty's closest contact, and that's why it was so hard to even find out that he existed."

"Sebastian Moran," John pondered. "So, why does he want me dead?"

"Because somehow Sebastian Moran discovered that I was still alive. He probably realised that someone was killing all of his assets, and then deduced that it was someone who could get in Moriarty's way. That person could only be me."

"Modest," John muttered.

Sherlock gave him a withering look. "His realisation that I was alive made you an obvious mark. Moran knows that I want to stay hidden under the cloak of death until it suits me to reveal myself to be alive, and he also knows that I would kill myself to save you. By making you a target, he has ensured that I will be here to protect you, and that will make my existence known as more and more people see me with you. I cannot leave your side because I know that when I do, Moran will pounce."

John nodded slowly as he took the information in. Sherlock's theories were probably right, as far as he could tell. He was a liability. Sally Donovan would be laughing in his face. She'd told him far too many times that being friends with Sherlock was dangerous, but he hadn't heeded her advice to stay away from him. But he was in too deep now, and John wouldn't have it any other way.

"What can we do, then?" he asked.

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling in thought, before he looked back at John with amused eyes and said: "We can wait for him to make a mistake."

"Right," said John.

"And the biggest mistake he could possibly make," said Sherlock. "Would be for him to try and kill you now."


	55. Little Blue Shoes

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock yelled as he rose from his seat suddenly. "Mrs Hudson!"

There was a tremendous thumping on the stairs, and the woman in question flew into the room, with her face incredulous as she saw the man who was standing in the middle of the floor. "Sherlock!" she practically squealed, and she flung herself into his arms. The arms held her tightly against him, and Sherlock planted a hard kiss into her hair, breathing in her scent and her joy.

John was grinning from ear to ear as he watched the scene unfold. Tears of happiness and love spilt down Mrs Hudson's wrinkled cheeks, and Sherlock brushed then away gently with one thin finger. She was saying his name, over and over hysterically as he cuddled her into his ribs, keeping her close. Her blubbering mouth rolled out syllables that made no sense except for the ones of his name, and he, although pretending to be unaffected, bore the expression of one who had loved and lost and found again. John could see the bliss he felt in every detail of his posture.

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson snuffled as she drew herself back so that she could see him properly. "You're alive. You're –" She placed both hands on his face, one on each cheek, like that was the only way she could prove his actuality.

"Mrs Hudson, I have missed you," Sherlock said with warmth so lovely that she threw herself back into his chest, and snuggled into him once more.

"What's going on?" A voice at the open door said.

Sherlock and John both darted their eyes towards the gap where Nina stood in her faded denim dungarees, with a smudge of white chalk across her right cheek, a graphite splotch over her left brow and a smear of green paint that scarred a line across her lips.

"Sherlock, this is –" John began to say as he rose from his seat.

"Ah. You must be Nina," Sherlock said as he broke away from Mrs Hudson's embrace and strode towards Nina with his hand outstretched. Nina shook it. "John's told me so much about you. Unintentionally, of course."

Nina’s eyes went wide, and she dropped Sherlock’s hand as though it might bite her. She looked at John, who simply shrugged, and then looked back at the tall, dark-haired detective. “I should call the police.”

John’s head snapped to glance up at Sherlock, who maintained his perfect composure. “I’ll save you the trouble. I was meaning to catch up with Lestrade. I owe him a visit, considering all the trouble I’ve caused him.”

The young artist could hardly keep her mouth from falling open. “And you’re okay with this, John?” she inquired aggressively. “After everything?”

“He’s not a criminal, Nina,” John assured her. “He did it to protect me.”

“Protect you? Look at what he’s done to you!” she snapped furiously.

John flinched. Sherlock intervened. “John and I have been through this already,” he said quietly. “Please, even if you don’t trust me, you have to trust John that it is the truth.”

It looked as though she was going to argue, but John knew as well as Nina did that Sherlock had hit a weak point. “Alright,” she eventually conceded. “Alright.”

“Thank you,” John said, reaching out to touch Nina’s shoulder.

She relaxed under his touch, but she watched Sherlock cautiously as she stalked around the coffee table to sit on the sofa where Sherlock had spent many hours lying in sulk. She slipped her feet out of her shoes and tucked her legs up onto the seat.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at her, then turned away from her to wander into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, revealing a bottle of milk and a carton of orange. John's brows pulled together in confusion.

"You brought milk?" he said, flabbergasted.

"And beans," said Sherlock.

John looked at Mrs Hudson, and Mrs Hudson looked back at John. Both of them wore identical expressions of astonishment as Sherlock poured a mug full of orange juice and handed it to Nina. "You were thirsty?"

Nina contained her wonder rather successfully as she accepted the mug. "Yes. Thank you." He'd taken a few steps before she gave in to her curiosity and asked the question. "How did you know I like orange?"

John nearly choked on the dregs of his coffee that he was downing. His eyes snapped to Sherlock with warning in them, and Sherlock's mouth pulled up at the corners. "Sherlock," he said threateningly.

"My dear John, please do let me have this small pleasure," said Sherlock with a glorious twinkle in his eyes as he flashed a glance over his shoulder at his friend, before turning back to Nina and proceeding to analyse her.

"You haven't had a drink yet today. Your lips are dry and cracked. You're trying to wet them when you lick them, but because of the paint that's still there, I'd say that your saliva is insufficient, which suggests not only that your last drink was many hours ago, but also that the last thing you drank was not a glass of water, or even a water-based drink like tea or coffee. So what do you drink? Not alcohol, there's no scent of it anywhere on you. Fizzy drinks are excluded because of the state of your teeth. Not browned. But they aren't quite white enough to say that your drink is not somewhat acidic. Orange juice seemed most likely, especially since it's what John has in the fridge. John hates oranges."

Nina struggled to compose her features as Sherlock stunned a stranger once again. She took a large gulp of her drink without moving her muddled glower from him. Sherlock smiled happily as he moved back to his armchair and picked up his cold coffee that he'd left on the arm. He took a small sip, and spat it back into the cup with revulsion. "John!" he accused. "You let it go cold!"

John coughed. "I'm sorry, I didn't know I had to keep it warm for you whilst you explained to me why somebody wants to kill me."

Mrs Hudson looked between John and Sherlock, horrified. "What?"

"It doesn't matter, Mrs Hudson," said Sherlock. "John's just got himself into a spot of bother."

John looked at Sherlock sceptically. " _I_ got myself into a spot of bother?"

"Well, yes, John," Sherlock said as though to point out John's stupidity. "You didn't have to be my friend."

A series of spluttered coughs and strangled sounds followed this statement, as John struggled with Sherlock's arrogance. The arrogance, though, he knew he had surely missed, and so after the couple of seconds it took him to realise this, John gave Sherlock a smile that in no words said: "I love you". And Sherlock smiled right back at him.

"Who's trying to kill John, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson was frantic with concern. _"Sherlock?"_

"Mrs Hudson, please! It doesn't matter!" Sherlock snapped. "John is fine. You don't need to worry about him."

"What's the deal, then?" Nina piped up as she began to emerge from her snuggled-up position on the couch. "Why does this person want to kill John?"

"Nina," sighed Sherlock with exasperation. "If you want to stay alive, you'd do well to keep your nose _out_."

"What if I wanted to know?" she tested.

"If you knew the risks, and you still wanted to know, then I would tell you. But not whilst Mrs Hudson is here. I'm not putting anyone else in danger," Sherlock answered.

"Right. Well in that case I’d rather not get involved," said Nina as she stood to leave, placing her drained mug on the coffee table and slipping her little blue shoes back onto her feet. “It’s been… interesting to meet you, Mr Holmes.”

Before she could disappear, Sherlock has caught her by the arm, having silently crossed the entire length of the room within four strides. “Thank you,” he said. “For taking care of him. He needed me, and I left. It is no small thing to win my gratitude, Nina Bargman, yet you have indeed won it. If there’s anything you need, ask.”

The painter scrutinised his chiselled expression, which was as blank and cold as a stone angel’s, but his eyes spoke of voluminous grief and a guilt that would never ebb. His hand was warm around her bicep. There was life in the famous sociopath, Sherlock Holmes, and she was privileged enough to have seen it. She simply nodded at him, and then she flitted back downstairs to her own flat.

"Right then," Sherlock said as his softness slid away. "Mrs Hudson, I would really appreciate it if you could make me a fresh cup of coffee. John, I'm afraid, didn't do a very good job."

Mrs Hudson let out a sad laugh. "Not your housekeeper!" She gave a fractured smile, picked up his mug and wandered into the kitchen to boil the kettle again, tears still clinging like a film to her eyes.

The bubbling of the water increased, and Sherlock slumped back into his chair, his eyes closed, and his head rolled back. His muscles all loosened and relaxed as his breathing slowed and steadied. Concern flooded John, as he grasped that Sherlock was absolutely exhausted. "Sherlock," he said. "You need to sleep. Go to bed."

"I'm not tired," Sherlock protested in a bleary voice.

"When was the last time you slept?" John asked seriously.

Sherlock yawned. "Tuesday, on the train from Edinburgh to Leeds."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "You haven't slept in four days! And you won't have slept for long either. Get to bed, now. I'm not joking." John's tone was stern, and as Sherlock looked at him through weary eyes, he could see that he was uncompromising in his face.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "I'm fine, John."

"No, you're not," John retorted brusquely. "You need to sleep."

"I need… To protect… You," Sherlock objected.

"I'll be fine for one day." John dismissed his objection. "Get to bed, or God help me, I will drag you there."

"I'd like to see you try."

After a momentary pause, John grabbed Sherlock by his ankles and pulled him onto the floor before Sherlock could as much as squeak. He hit the ground with an almighty thud, glaring at John in anger. John's expression was pleasant as he said: "Now get to bed," with a delightful smile.

Sherlock made a defiant face at John, but knowing that the doctor wouldn't shut up until he'd slept, Sherlock sprang to his feet and whisked away to his bedroom door. He paused at the handle. "John," he said. "I couldn't help but notice last night that my bedroom is actually rather dusty. Do you mind if I use yours?"

John stopped still, and stared at him. He internally slapped himself for being an idiot. "Of course not. Go ahead." Sherlock using his room was fine. Sleeping in his bed. Fine. Totally fine. John cursed to himself.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said as he moved towards the door. "I appreciate that." And he walked out of the room, jumping up the stairs several at a time.

Once he had disappeared from sight, John pulled his fingers through his hair, and went to catch Mrs Hudson before she added the sugars to the coffee. "He's gone to bed. I'll have it."

"Oh, right then," she said. "It's good that you're still looking after him, John. I would have expected you to –" She cut herself off.

"Expected me to what?" demanded John.

Mrs Hudson was startled by his tone. "To… Well… Have been a little angrier with him. He made you think he was dead for three years."

John looked at the floor. "I was angry," he confessed. "I was so angry. But he… He makes me so happy, Mrs H. I couldn't stay angry when I was just so happy that he was here."

She nodded and patted him on the back as she stepped closer to him. "I understand, love. He makes me happy too." And she began to leave.

"Thanks for the coffee," John called to her, and she answered by raising a hand as she retreated.

John was alone again.


	56. Blood

The day had passed, and at 10:00pm the sky was pitch-dark. John was washing up the plates and mugs by the side of the sink, his arms up to his elbows covered in soap suds. The cutlery winked in the dim kitchen, sending bars of colour shooting across the draining board. Amongst the forks and teaspoons lay a single sharp knife with a wooden handle. The handle that still bore the stains of John's blood, where it had trickled down the blade as he had cut deep into his wrists.

John dropped the tumbler he had been holding into the water in the sink. He heard a loud glassy crash as it hit the bottom, not broken, but nearly. His hands were shaking uncontrollably as he stared at the knife. This was a fear he couldn't regulate, one which would spring up on him at any time. It could be argued that keeping the knife was only agitating the situation, but John knew that whether it was there or not, the fear would grab him. He could feel the blade in his skin, he could hear his groans as he pulled the knife up his wrist, and he could smell the blood that dripped down his hands and onto the floor.

Nausea hit him like a sledgehammer, and he stumbled away from the weapon on the side of his sink. He backed away from his past as it haunted him with memories far too vivid to ever be forgotten. He could barely live with himself when he was like this; so afraid of his history that he tripped over his own feet on the way to the bathroom.

Reaching into the cupboard, John pulled down the anti-depressants that he'd saved for occasions such as this one. He cried tears of self-hate, and they spun away down the plughole as he tipped two pills into his mouth and swallowed them without the aid of water. His stomach flipped and bile rose into his mouth, but John swallowed it again, unwilling to let the pills' effect be wasted if he vomited.

Having Sherlock back had worsened his shame. Because Sherlock knew, and Sherlock had asked to see with so much pity and sympathy, but John hadn't shown him. How could he reveal his scars to Sherlock, and see how his face would drop with dismay? It would ruin John to show him how far he had fallen. Sherlock didn't deserve to feel that much remorse, that much agony. Tomorrow he would know what had happened, though, and he would know that it was his fault.

John sat against the bathroom wall as he waited for the tablets to take effect, with salt water streaking his cheeks. It felt like he'd been sat there for hours before the drug-induced euphoria made its way into his sealed veins. With great effort, he stood, and proceeded to make his way to bed. He'd had more than enough from the day. He needed to sleep now, to clear his mind through dreams and unconsciousness.

He climbed the stairs with heavy legs, and he stumbled into his bedroom, only to see a dark-haired shape fast asleep in his bed. Sherlock. Of course. John thought for a moment, and considered going back downstairs to sleep on the sofa. He quickly dismissed the thought, and he began to undress, slipping off his jeans and changing into a scruffy long-sleeved t-shirt before climbing into the bed next to Sherlock, careful not to get too close or move the duvet too much lest he wake up. He didn't want to sleep alone tonight. He was too frightened. All he wanted was to be close to his friend.

John's tired eyes fluttered shut, and he was unconscious within seconds.

Sherlock's angelic mouth turned into a smile.


	57. "Dinner?"

John woke in the late morning of Sunday, and his first thought was: _I'm meant to be at work._ He leapt out of bed, and tugged on his smart trousers hastily, falling around the room in his urgency. His shirt was changed in an instant, and his fingers fumbled at the buttons as he raced down the stairs to the bathroom.

He raced through the living room, his shirt till half-open, barely seeing Sherlock, who was sat at his desk, tapping away on his computer, updating _The Science of Deduction._ John's toothbrush was in his mouth when he emerged, and he swooped around the kitchen, snapping the kettle on and pouring an unmeasured amount of coffee granules into his mug. Unable to be still whilst he waited, John paced around the flat, running around madly, picking up random items, then returning them to their original places after a lap of the room.

The kettle finished boiling, and john was there in an instant, pouring the hot water into the mug and beating the mixture until the granules were in solution. Realising that his toothbrush was still stuck in his mouth, John hurried over to the kitchen sink and spat into it, accidentally dropping the brush into the dirty water as he did so.

"Shit!" John swore as he slid back to his coffee mug, the contained liquid he then attempted to down. "SHIT!" he howled as the coffee scalded the entire inside of his mouth and throat. And then he continued to gulp the coffee, irrespective of whether or not it damaged his oesophagus.

Sherlock had turned to watch him quietly as John failed to put his shoes on quickly enough for his liking. "John," he said softly. "I've already excused you from work. What are you getting ready for?"

John halted, and spun very slowly around to look at Sherlock with an expression of pure fury. "You _what?_ " he snarled.

"Excused you from work," repeated Sherlock. "You were late anyway."

"I burned my mouth because you didn't have the thought to tell me _before_ I almost walked out the door!" John said, incredulous and fuming.

"Mm." Sherlock turned his back again.

"One day, Sherlock, I am going to kill you," John said darkly.

There was a pause, and then Sherlock turned his head to look at John. As soon as their eyes met, they burst into simultaneous bouts of laughter. Chuckles shook their sides, and as soon as they calmed, their eyes would greet each other again, and the fits would continue.

"Alright, alright," John gasped. "Calm down, now. Oh, God."

"John," breathed Sherlock as his composure returned. "Dear John, you couldn't kill me if you tried. Not even _I_ could kill me."

A snort of hysteria burst from John. "I said _stop_ , Sherlock! Damn you!"

"Ah, John," Sherlock chuckled.

Their smiles were identical as John went to the sofa and collapsed upon it, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes and clutching his aching ribs. All the laughs they'd had together flashed before his vision, and he could see the same thoughts in Sherlock as he watched nostalgia creep over his face. 

"I need your help today," Sherlock said, rubbing his stomach and throat. "I need to keep you in my sight."

"Right. Okay," John said. "What do you need help with?"

"We," smiled Sherlock. "Are spending the whole day wandering around London."

"And how does that involve any 'help' that you say you need from me?" John asked.

"I'll be with you, and people will see us together."

"How does that help?"

"Well, I am meant to have risen from the dead, John. May as well get the 'big reveal' over and done with. I’m also going to have to face Lestrade. Doubtless he’s going to want to arrest me."

John nodded, understanding. "It’s going to involve _talking to people_ ,” he chuckled. “So do you want to go now? I'm ready."

"I know you are, John," Sherlock said gently.

He stood then, and made his way over to the door, where he plucked his coat and scarf off the hook. He wrapped the length of blue material around his neck, and shrugged the great coat on, tugging the collar up. John just watched, absorbing the moment, remembering how much he'd missed that. His cheekbones and his coat collar. The two things that defined Sherlock Holmes.

"Come on, John!" said Sherlock earnestly as he swung out of the room and thumped down the stairs.

Without a backwards glance at the flat, John Watson followed his Holmes onto the streets, to face the day, to face the crowds, to face the world together once more.

\---

Sherlock walked beside John through central London. Wherever they went, people stared and whispered as they passed, recognising the dead man walking next to his blogger, and trying to fit the puzzle pieces together in their heads. Gapes were a common sight for John as he fell into step with Sherlock, but he wasn't bothered by all the attention they were getting. He was wrapped in a cloud of hazy bliss, and nothing could blemish the fact that he was rambling through his city with the love of his life. His Sherlock.

John barely took his eyes off him.

Evening came, and they were still walking, not saying a word, just wandering, their companionship overruling any thought at an attempted conversation. Eventually, though, the silence had to end, and it was ended by the grumbling of John's stomach as he discovered that he hadn't eaten all day. Sherlock seemed startled by the noise, but he smiled at John's petrified face as the rumble caused several nearby couples to turn their heads.

"Dinner?"

"I'd love to, Sherlock."

The restaurant they picked was a nearby Italian, and they were seated by a waitress who put them on a table by the window. The candle at the table was already lit when they sat down. Sherlock hung his coat on the hat-stand, alongside his scarf. "Your coat, John?" he offered as John removed his own.

"Yep," beamed John as he passed it over. Sherlock hung it on the neighbouring peg.

John took his menu, and he scanned over the list quickly, looking up at Sherlock to see if he would finally be eating with him. And to his great surprise, Sherlock's eyes were skimming his menu for the first time since John had met him. "You're having something?" John couldn't help but blurt.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I'm hungry."

John looked at his friend, scrutinising. "You've lost weight, Sherlock."

"I have."

"You haven't been eating, have you?"

"Well of course I've been eating, John. If I hadn't eaten, I'd be dead," Sherlock said dismissively.

"You've gotten so _thin_ , Sherlock. It's not healthy. Jesus Christ, couldn't you have at least eaten whilst you were gone? Did you really need me to pester you? Couldn't you have eaten well, just for me?" John's voice was despairing as he looked at Sherlock.

"I've disappointed you," Sherlock said with dismay.

"You need to _eat_ , Sherlock," John replied.

"Fine. I'll eat now, I'll even get a dessert," Sherlock decided. "Is that better?"

John sighed. "Much."

Sherlock gave a sharp nod. And then the waitress came over. "Do you know what you would like to drink?"

"Yes, I think we do," said Sherlock authoritatively. "Bring a bottle of your best champagne over, would you?"

"Of course, sir," the waitress smiled as she strutted away.

"Champagne, Sherlock?" John queried.

"Yes, John. Champagne. I don't usually drink, but I hear it makes you fat."

"You just made a joke."

"Did I? I suppose I did, yes."

The waitress came back with the champagne, and she poured the sparkling liquid into each of the glasses she set down on the table. When she'd finished, she pulled out a small notepad and a black biro. "Have you decided what you'd like to eat?"

"I'll have the Ravioli di Capra," Sherlock informed her without taking his eyes off John, who looked up from his menu briskly.

"I'll… Err… Have the same, please," John said, eyeing Sherlock bemusedly.

"Right you are. I'll bring your food over as soon as it's ready." Neither man watched her walk away.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" John asked.

"Like what?"

"Like… I don't know."

"Hmm."

Sherlock took a sip of his champagne, and rolled it around in his mouth, sampling its flavour. "It's good," he noted.

"Well you did order their best champagne," mumbled John into his raised glass as he, too, took a taste. "Mm. It is good."

"Glad you like it," Sherlock said, averting his gaze so that it trailed out of the window, watching the passers-by. John stared out too, into the nighttime, but seeing nothing of interest, he turned his eyes to absorb Sherlock.

The candlelight lit Sherlock spectacularly. The softness of the glow took away all the harsh edges to his starved face, filling all the deep hollows and making his face younger, healthier. His lips looked fuller, more curved, as though there was an ever-present smile upon his mouth. His eyelashes flicked light in all directions as they brushed across his lower lids when he blinked. The green of his irises was barely visible, but the small fraction that John could see flamed with the dancing flame of the candle, beautifying Sherlock's whole being with their delicate magnificence. The splendour that was his dark curls framed his cheekbones, and like an ethereal presence, Sherlock brought nothing but glory to any room that he happened to be in. And John knew it now, as he hadn't fully known before he had lost him.

A bowl was set down in front of him. "Here you go. Would you like any parmesan on that?" The waitress' voice snapped him out of the trance he had been in.

"Oh. No thank you," he said. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock was shocked back into reality. "Erm… No? No."

John looked apologetically at the waitress as he thanked her once more, and she left. John studied his friend. "What's on your mind, Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Napkin?"

"No, Sherlock," John exhaled before picking up his knife and fork and digging straight into the meal. His face screwed up in pleasure.

"Good?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded enthusiastically. "Great. Try it." He motioned to Sherlock to begin eating.

With raised eyebrows, Sherlock took his first forkful, and chewed thoughtfully. After apparently deciding that his food wasn't poisoned, Sherlock ate with zeal, and even seemed to be enjoying it. John couldn't help but wear a satisfied expression as he watched him eat. Sherlock noted this expression with some humour, but did not speak. He would finish it for John.

For a full half hour, the couple sat, unspeaking, as they dined. John finished first, but he refused to say a word until Sherlock's plate was empty. They sipped champagne until their glasses were empty, at which point Sherlock picked up the bottle and poured until they were full again.

The waitress came to take their clean plates away, and asked if they wanted to see the dessert menu. John didn't give Sherlock a chance to say no. The small menu was placed in John's hands, John, who instantly passed it over to his friend. "Here. You have to choose something and you have to eat it. Doctor's orders."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said as he glanced over the small piece of paper for anything that he might wish to have. Eventually he set the menu down.

"What are you having?"

Sherlock chortled quietly. "It's alright, John. I have chosen something. I don't have to tell you straight away, do I?"

"What are you having?" John repeated with determination.

"Tiramisu," Sherlock replied. "Is that alright?"

"Yes," said John in a sigh.

They waited.

Suddenly Sherlock's entire demeanour changed, and he was the alert consulting detective once more, rather than the softer man who'd just had dinner with his companion. "Look out, John," he said quickly. "Lestrade's here."

John looked around desperately, seeing danger in this arrival. "What can we do?"

"We don't have to do anything, John," Sherlock said. "Sit tight."

Lestrade came round the wall that had separated the main body of the restaurant from the smaller annex where John and Sherlock were sat. His mouth dropped open in astonishment as he saw with his own eyes the resurrected man who sat opposite John Watson at the dinner table. Speechless for a second, Lestrade composed himself.

"Sherlock Holmes," he stated.

"Detective Inspector," Sherlock responded.

"You're alive."

"Evidently."

"Any chance you could tell me where you've been for three years, or are you going to leave me in the dark?"

"I'd go with the latter."

"Right," Lestrade said, looking like a lost lamb before this collected figure. "You're going to have to come with me, Sherlock. For questioning."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have just come back from the dead, and you insist upon arresting me halfway through my dinner. I haven't had dessert yet, and John did insist."

"Sherlock –" Lestrade began.

"For once in your life, Inspector, sit down and have a glass of champagne. I am not letting this bottle go to waste. Besides, I'm not going anywhere. You can arrest me when I've had my tiramisu." Sherlock then raised his voice slightly to call for the waitress. "Excuse me, but could you bring over another glass for our friend? Thank you."

The glass was filled with bubbly and passed over to Lestrade, who stared, stunned, between the two men at the table, then accepted the glass and pulled up a chair to sit down with them. He took a long sip of the beverage, and made an appreciative noise. "This is good," he announced.

"Yes, John and I have already concluded as much," Sherlock said dryly. "Would you mind informing me as to the reasons why you interrupted my date?"

John choked on his champagne, but Sherlock ignored him and inclined his head for Lestrade to speak.

"Well, erm… You were dead. And now you've come back," Lestrade said slowly.

"Yes. Hurry up and get to the point, Lestrade. My patience is wearing thin." Sherlock spoke sharply.

"Alright, calm down," Lestrade said and then continued. "You were a fake, Sherlock. That's how everyone sees you. You killed lots of people to prove that you were a genius, and you hired an actor to be your enemy. You were a criminal, and nobody's proved your innocence yet, so I have to treat you like a delinquent and arrest you."

"What do you mean, no one's proved my innocence?" Sherlock demanded. "Have I not just proved my genius by simply existing? I jumped from that rooftop, and yet I didn't die. Nobody knows how I did it. So how could I be _alive_ , Lestrade, if I was a fake who killed himself because he couldn't stand the thought of being in prison?"

Lestrade thought for a moment. "It doesn't make any difference, Sherlock. I'm still going to have to arrest you. It doesn't matter whether I believe you or not. You need sound evidence and a brilliant explanation to get you out of this one, because there are several million people out there who do not feel safe because they think a psychopath is freely roaming the streets of London with no repercussions whatsoever!"

"I've told you before, Lestrade. I'm not a psychopath. I am a sociopath."

"People don't see it like that."

Sherlock gave an almighty breath. "Fine, Lestrade. I'll come. After dessert, though. I promised John I'd have one. Excuse me, waitress! Can I get a tiramisu over here please? Thanks again."

Lestrade shook his head. "You're unbelievable."

"I have promised to keep." Sherlock regarded him, then asked "Does John have to come, too?"

"No. He's done nothing wrong. His name's already been cleared. He can go back home," Lestrade informed him. "Unless he wants to come with you to the station. But that's his choice."

"I'll come," interjected John.

"No," Sherlock protested. "You're going back to Baker Street. I'm not having you waiting around for me. Besides, you've got to tell Mrs Hudson what's going on and you have work in the morning."

"I'll call her. And I can miss work," John countered.

"Two days in a row? Not likely," Sherlock retorted.

"I'll call in sick."

"That won't work, considering that today I told them you were going to a funeral, but you’d definitely be back in tomorrow because you have to pick up your prescription."

John gave a bitter laugh. "You planned this," he said. "You knew this would happen."

"Of course I did, John," he said with an indignant huff. "Ah, tiramisu. Thank you. Could you bring the bill over as well?" He said to the waitress as she set the dessert and spoon down before him. The bill was on the table within ten seconds.

Sherlock took his first spoonful, slicing off the corner of the cuboid of pudding, and he slipped the spoon into his mouth, pulling off the creamy dessert with his lips. All eyes were on him as he rolled the food around in his mouth, his eyes wide as he swallowed. He scooped up another spoonful quickly, and shoved it into his mouth as her savoured it. His face was a picture of pleasure. "John!" he exclaimed. "You have to try this!" And his spoon dove in for another scoop, which he passed over to John’s mouth.

John thought very briefly, and then opened his mouth and accepted the tiramisu from Sherlock with trusting eyes. His reaction to the dessert was very similar to his friend's, and he smiled with delight. "Wonderful," he said. "Absolutely divine." Lestrade stifled his laughter beneath a gulp of champagne as he watched the interaction. Sherlock's glare was enough to make him stop.

Sherlock finished his meal, finally, and drained the last drops of his champagne. Lestrade grinned to himself as he slid out a pair of handcuffs. "Is that really necessary?" John inquired.

"Last time he got arrested, he threatened to kill you and he ran away with a gun," Lestrade said.

"He's not exactly going to do that again, is he, though?" John reasoned.

"I'm not going to give him the chance to," smiled Lestrade maliciously as he tugged Sherlock out of his chair and slipped the handcuffs onto his outstretched wrists. "Have a good night, John."

"Don't leave the flat, John," Sherlock instructed. "Stay safe."

"Sherlock –"

"I'll see you tomorrow, John," Sherlock called as he was led away to the police car that was waiting outside.

John grabbed his coat from the hat-stand, and realised that Sherlock had left his and the blue scarf on the neighbouring hook. He was stuck in a moment of indecision, but resolved that he'd take it home for him, to await his return. He threw the coat around his shoulders and the scarf around his neck, and began to dash off.

"Excuse me, sir!" The waitress stopped him. "You need to pay the bill."


	58. Blue Dressing Gown

"That was tedious."

John awoke to the shocking sound of Sherlock's voice coming from directly above his head. His heart leaped as his eyes snapped open in early-morning terror at having been woken in such a manner. He rolled further onto his back so that he could see Sherlock, who was beaming down at him with a cup of tea in one hand and his other resting on the bed next to John's ear.

"Sherlock," said John within a yawn. "You're back."

"Yes. The investigation proved to be very brief after I explained to the exactly what had happened, and they let me go as soon as I told them that the chances of your death increase with every moment that I spend away from you." He passed John his mug of tea as soon as he was fully upright, the duvet only reaching around his waist so that the contours his chest were visible through his shirt. "All in all," he continued. "It was a waste of time."

"Right," said John, and took a cautious sip of his tea. It tasted like tea should, so he continued to drink.

"I'm going to an official trial on Wednesday," Sherlock stated. "Just to clear everything up with the public. Nothing you have to worry about, but you do have to come. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

John swallowed. "Okay, but I've got work on Wednesdays."

Sherlock said. "I'll take care of it."

John nodded his consent, and glanced to his bedside table for the time. His clock, however, was not there. "Sherlock, where's my clock?"

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "I threw it out the window."

"Wh– What, Sherlock, why?" John spluttered.

"It kept beeping."

"That's the _point_ ," John spat. "It's an alarm clock. It's meant to wake me up so that I can get ready for work. What time is it?"

"Just gone half-past eight."

John looked at Sherlock confusedly. "You woke me up at the right time?"

"Of course I did."

"Right. Thank you." John began to get out of bed, but stopped. "Can you get out for a minute while I get dressed?"

"Certainly, John," Sherlock replied, and he stood, leaving the room, taking the empty mug with him. John waited until the door had fully closed, then he heaved himself off the mattress, picked up his clothes from the floor and tossed them on before descending to 221B once more.

Sherlock was in the kitchen when he arrived, stood at the cooker with a frying pan on the gas and several rashers of bacon sizzling there. John watched in amazement as Sherlock scooped the bacon onto perfectly buttered slices of bread once it was done. Sherlock closed the bread into sandwiches, one on each plate, and carried them to the chairs. He held one out to John. "Eat something, please?" Sherlock requested, almost pleading as he sat down.

"I haven't got time, Sherlock. I've got to –" John tried to say.

Sherlock cut him off. "You need to eat. You'll be hungry. And I made this for you. It took _effort_." He said the word like it was alien.

John's feet danced on the spot with indecision. _I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't_ , he concluded, and then accepted the plate, sat down opposite Sherlock, and bit down into the beautifully cooked sandwich. John was impressed at Sherlock; usually he couldn't cook anything, nor did he. It was always John who made dinner. Sherlock concealed a smile in his breakfast as he watched John's face portray his surprise. And, even though it was just a humble bacon sandwich, Sherlock felt a sense of great achievement.

When John's breakfast had been demolished, he dumped his plate in the sink and hurried to the door as he pulled his coat on. "See you later, Sherlock," he said. "Thanks for breakfast – it was… Excellent."

"You're very welcome, John," Sherlock said in a soft voice as John's footsteps faded down the stairs. And there Sherlock sat in wait for his blogger's return.

Sherlock's blue dressing gown was hung on the back of John's bedroom door.


End file.
